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UNIVERSITY OF
CALIFORNIA
SAN OIEGO
</
John McCrae
Hn jflanfcecs Jfielfcs
Hnt> <§>tber poems
Hn I&eea in Character
Sir HnDcew flDacpbail
fltlustrateo
O. p. Putnam's Sons
View Jjorh and Xondon
linfcfterbocfter press
1910
COPYRIGHT, 1919
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Ube Knickerbocker press, View Borfc
Facsimile of an autograph copy of the poem "In Flanders Fields"
This was probably written from memory as "grow" is used in place of "blow" in the first line
•Hote of
Acknowledgment and thanks are due to the
following for permission to use poems: Toronto
Varsity; Canadian Magazine; Massey's Magazine;
Westminster; Toronto Globe; The University
Magazine; Punch; and The Spectator.
The reproduction of the autograph poem is
from a copy belonging to Carleton Noyes, Esq.,
of Cambridge, Mass., who kindly permitted its
use.
Contents
PAGE
IN FLANDERS FIELDS .... 3
Punch, 1915
THE ANXIOUS DEAD .... 4
The Spectator, 1917
THE WARRIOR ..... 6
University Magazine, 1907
ISANDLWANA ...... 7
University Magazine, 1910
THE UNCONQUERED DEAD ... 9
University Magazine, 1906
THE CAPTAIN 1 1
University Magazine, 1913
THE SONG OF THE DERELICT . . -14
Canadian Magazine, 1898
QUEBEC 16
University Magazine, 1908
THEN AND Now . . . . .17
Massey's Magazine, 1896
Contents
PAGE
UNSOLVED ...... 18
Canadian Magazine, 1895
/
THE HOPE OF MY HEART . . 19
Varsity, 1894
PENANCE . . . . 20
Canadian Magazine, 1896
SLUMBER SONGS . ... 22
Canadian Magazine, 1897
THE OLDEST DRAMA . . . -24
University Magazine, 1907
RECOMPENSE 25
Canadian Magazine, 1896
MINE HOST .... .26
The Westminster, 1897
EQUALITY . . . . . -27
The Westminster, 1898
ANARCHY ...... 28
Massey's Magazine, 1897
DISARMAMENT ... -29
Toronto Globe, 1899
THE DEAD MASTER . . . -3°
University Magazine, 1913
THE HARVEST OF THE SEA . 31
TTw; Westminster, 1898
[vij
Contents
PAGE
THE DYING OF PERE PIERRE . . 32
University Magazine, 1904
EVENTIDE ...... 34
Canadian Magazine, 1895
UPON WATTS' PICTURE "Sic TRANSIT" . 36
University Magazine, 1904
A SONG OF COMFORT . . . .38
Varsity, 1894
THE PILGRIMS . . . . .40
University Magazine, 1905
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS . . -42
Varsity, 1894
THE NIGHT COMETH . . . -44
University Magazine, 1913
IN DUE SEASON . . . . -45
The Westminster, 1897
JOHN McCRAE .... - 47
An Essay in Character by Sir Andrew Macphail.
[ vii
1lllu0tration0
PAGE
JOHN McCRAE . . . Frontispiece
FACSIMILE OF AN AUTOGRAPH COPY OF THE
POEM "!N FLANDERS FIELDS" . ii
FACSIMILE OF A SKETCH BY JOHN McCRAE
ON THE BACK OF A CARD . . 76
JOHN McCRAE AND BONNEAU . . 104
[ix]
In jflanbers
fln jflanfcers
IN Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch ; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Sbe anxious Beat)
OGUNS, fall silent till the dead men hear
Above their heads the legions pressing
on:
(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,
And died not knowing how the day had gone.)
O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see
The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;
Then let your mighty chorus witness be
To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.
Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call,
That we have sworn, and will not turn aside,
That we will onward till we win or fall,
That we will keep the faith for which they
died.
TTbe Hiuious Deafc
Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,
They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep;
Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,
And in content may turn them to their sleep.
[51
Ebe Udarrior
HE wrought in poverty, the dull grey days,
But with the night his little lamp-lit
room
Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze
Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the
boom
Of Bliicher's guns; he shared Almeida's scars,
And from the close-packed deck, about to die,
Looked up and saw the Birkenhead's tall spars
Weave wavering lines across the Southern sky:
Or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row,
At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay;
Charged with the fiercest in Busaco's strife,
Brave dreams are his — the flick'ring lamp burns
low —
Yet couraged for the battles of the day
He goes to stand full face to face with life.
[ 6]
S
fleanNwana
CARLET coats, and crash o' the band,
The grey of a pauper's gown,
A soldier's grave in Zululand,
And a woman in Brecon Town.
My little lad for a soldier boy,
(Mothers o' Brecon Town!)
My eyes for tears and his for joy
When he went from Brecon Town,
His for the flags and the gallant sights
His for the medals and his for the fights,
And mine for the dreary, rainy nights
At home in Brecon Town.
They say he's laid beneath a tree,
(Come back to Brecon Town!)
Shouldn't I know? — I was there to see:
(It's far to Brecon Town!)
(71
IsanMwana
It's me that keeps it trim and drest
With a briar there and a rose by his breast —
The English flowers he likes the best
That I bring from Brecon Town.
And I sit beside him — him and me,
(We're back to Brecon Town.)
To talk of the things that used to be
(Grey ghosts of Brecon Town);
I know the look o' the land and sky,
And the bird that builds in the tree near by,
And times I hear the jackals cry,
And me in Brecon Town.
Golden grey on miles of sand
The dawn comes creeping down;
It's day in far off Zululand
And night in Brecon Town.
[8]
Ebe Tflnconquerefc 2>eat>
"... defeated, with great loss."
NOT we the conquered! Not to us the
blame
Of them that flee, of them that basely
yield;
Nor ours the shout of victory, the fame
Of them that vanquish in a stricken field.
That day of battle in the dusty heat
We lay and heard the bullets swish and sing
Like scythes amid the over-ripened wheat,
And we the harvest of their garnering.
Some yielded, No, not we! Not we, we swear
By these our wounds; this trench upon the hill
Where all the shell-strewn earth is seamed and
bare,
Was ours to keep; and lo! we have it still.
[91
TIbe Tttnconquerefc IDeafc
We might have yielded, even we, but death
Came for our helper; like a sudden flood
The crashing darkness fell; our painful breath
We drew with gasps amid the choking blood.
The roar fell faint and farther off, and soon
Sank to a foolish humming in our ears,
Like crickets in the long, hot afternoon
Among the wheat fields of the olden years.
Before our eyes a boundless wall of red
Shot through by sudden streaks of jagged
pain!
Then a slow-gathering darkness overhead
And rest came on us like a quiet rain.
Not we the conquered ! Not to us the shame,
Who hold our earthen ramparts, nor shall cease
To hold them ever; victors we, who came
In that fierce moment to our honoured peace.
[10]
T "W
LL
£bc Captain
1707
ERE all the day she swings from tide to
Here all night long she tugs a rusted chain,
A masterless hulk that was a ship of pride,
Yet unashamed: her memories remain.
It was Nelson in the Captain, Cape St. Vincent
far alee,
With the Vanguard leading s'uth'ard in the
haze —
Little Jervis and the Spaniards and the fight
that was to be,
Twenty-seven Spanish battleships, great bullies
of the sea,
And the Captain there to find her day of days.
In]
Captain
Right into them the Vanguard leads, but with
a sudden tack
The Spaniards double swiftly on their trail;
Now Jervis overshoots his mark, like some too
eager pack,
He will not overtake them, haste he e'er so
greatly back,
But Nelson and the Captain will not fail.
Like a tigress on her quarry leaps the Captain
from her place,
To lie across the fleeing squadron's way:
Heavy odds and heavy onslaught, gun to gun
and face to face,
Win the ship a name of glory, win the men a
death of grace,
For a little hold the Spanish fleet in play.
Ended now the Captain's battle, stricken sore
she falls aside
Holding still her foemen, beaten to the knee:
Captain
As the Vanguard drifted past her, "Well done,
Captain," Jervis cried,
Rang the cheers of men that conquered, ran the
blood of men that died,
And the ship had won her immortality.
Lo! here her progeny of steel and steam,
A funnelled monster at her mooring swings:
Still, in our hearts, we see her pennant stream,
And "W 'ell done, Captain," like a trumpet rings.
I 13
Song of tbe Derelict
YE have sung me your songs, ye have
chanted your rimes
(I scorn your beguiling, O sea!)
Ye fondle me now, but to strike me betimes.
(A treacherous lover, the sea !)
Once I saw as I lay, half-awash in the night
A hull in the gloom — a quick hail — and a light
And I lurched o'er to leeward and saved her for
spite
From the doom that ye meted to me.
I was sister to Terrible, seventy-four,
(Yo ho! for the swing of the sea!)
And ye sank her in fathoms a thousand or more
(Alas! for the might of the sea!)
Ye taunt me and sing me her fate for a sign !
[14]
Ube Sons of tbe 2>ereitct
What harm can ye wreak more on me or on mine?
Ho braggart ! I care not for boasting of thine —
A fig for the wrath of the sea !
Some night to the lee of the land I shall steal,
(Heigh-ho to be home from the sea!)
No pilot but Death at the rudderless wheel,
(None knoweth the harbor as he!)
To lie where the slow tide creeps hither and fro
And the shifting sand laps me around, for I know
That my gallant old crew are in Port long ago —
For ever at peace with the sea!
[isl
Quebec
1608-1908
OF old, like Helen, guerdon of the strong —
Like Helen fair, like Helen light of
word, —
"The spoils unto the conquerors belong.
Who winneth me must win me by the sword."
Grown old, like Helen, once the jealous prize
That strong men battled for in savage hate,
Can she look forth with unregretful eyes,
Where sleep Montcalm and Wolfe beside her
gate?
[16]
£ben anb Iftow
BENEATH her window in the fragrant night
I half forget how truant years have
flown
Since I looked up to see her chamber-light,
Or catch, perchance, her slender shadow
thrown
Upon the casement; but the nodding leaves
Sweep lazily across the unlit pane,
And to and fro beneath the shadowy eaves,
Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain
Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street
When all is still, as if the very trees
Were listening for the coming of her feet
That come no more; yet, lest I weep, the
breeze
Sings some forgotten song of those old years
Until my heart grows far too glad for tears.
[17]
Tllneofteb
AM I D my books I lived the hurrying years,
Disdaining kinship with my fellow
man;
Alike to me were human smiles and tears,
I cared not whither Earth's great life-stream
ran,
Till as I knelt before my mouldered shrine,
God made me look into a woman's eyes;
And I, who thought all earthly wisdom mine,
Knew in a moment that the eternal skies
Were measured but in inches, to the quest
That lay before me in that mystic gaze.
"Surely I have been errant: it is best
That I should tread, with men their human
ways."
God took the teacher, ere the task was learned,
And to my lonely books again I turned.
[18]
1bope of flD\> Ibeart
"Delicta juventutis et ignorantius ejus, quasumus ne memi-
neris, Domine,"
1LEFT, to earth, a little maiden fair,
With locks of gold, and eyes that shamed
the light;
I prayed that God might have her in His care
And sight.
Earth's love was false; her voice, a siren's song;
(Sweet mother-earth was but a lying name)
The path she showed was but the path of wrong
And shame.
"Cast her not out!" I cry. God's kind words
come —
" Her future is with Me, as was her past;
It shall be My good will to bring her home
At last."
[19]
penance
MY lover died a century ago,
Her dear heart stricken by my
sland'rous breath,
Wherefore the Gods forbade that I should know
The peace of death.
Men pass my grave, and say, "'Twere well to
sleep,
Like such an one, amid the uncaring dead!"
How should they know the vigils that I keep,
The tears I shed?
Upon the grave, I count with lifeless breath,
Each night, each year, the flowers that bloom
and die,
Deeming the leaves, that fall to dreamless death,
More blest than I.
[20]
Penance
'Twas just last year — I heard two lovers pass
So near, I caught the tender words he said:
To-night the rain-drenched breezes sway the
grass
Above his head.
That night full envious of his life was I,
That youth and love should stand at his behest;
To-night, I envy him, that he should lie
At utter rest.
[21]
Slumber Songs
i
SLEEP, little eyes
That brim with childish tears amid thy
play,
Be comforted! No grief of night can weigh
Against the joys that throng thy coming day.
Sleep, little heart!
There is no place in Slumberland for tears:
Life soon enough will bring its chilling fears
And sorrows that will dim the after years.
Sleep, little heart!
II
Ah, little eyes
Dead blossoms of a springtime long ago,
That life's storm crushed and left to lie below
The benediction of the falling snow!
[22]
Slumber Songs
Sleep, little heart
That ceased so long ago its frantic beat!
The years that come and go with silent feet
Have naught to tell save this — that rest is sweet.
Dear little heart.
23]
Ebe ©Ifcest Drama
" It fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reap-
ers. And he said unto his father, My head, my head. And
he said to a lad, Carry him to his mother. And ... he
sat on her knees till noon, and then died. And she went
up, and laid him on the bed. ... And shut the door upon
him and went out"
IMMORTAL story that no mother's heart
Ev'n yet can read, nor feel the biting
pain
That rent her soul! Immortal not by art
Which makes a long past sorrow sting again
Like grief of yesterday: but since it said
In simplest word the truth which all may see,
Where any mother sobs above her dead
And plays anew the silent tragedy.
[24!
1Recompen0e
I SAW two sowers in Life's field at morn,
To whom came one in angel guise and
said,
" Is it for labour that a man is born?
" Lo: I am Ease. Come ye and eat my bread!"
Then gladly one forsook his task undone
And with the Tempter went his slothful way,
The other toiled until the setting sun
With stealing shadows blurred the dusty day.
Ere harvest time, upon earth's peaceful breast
Each laid him down among the unreaping
dead.
" Labour hath other recompense than rest,
Else were the toiler like the fool," I said;
"God meteth him not less, but rather more
Because he sowed and others reaped his store."
[25]
flIMne Tbost
THERE stands a hostel by a travelled way;
Life is the road and Death the worthy
host;
Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say,
"How have ye fared?" They answer him,
the most,
"This lodging place is other than we sought;
We had intended farther, but the gloom
Came on apace, and found us ere we thought:
Yet will we lodge. Thou hast abundant
room."
Within sit haggard men that speak no word,
No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed;
No voice of fellowship or strife is heard
But silence of a multitude of dead.
"Naught can I offer ye," quoth Death, "but
rest!"
And to his chamber leads each tired guest.
[26]
Equality
I SAW a King, who spent his life to weave
Into a nation all his great heart
thought,
Unsatisfied until he should achieve
The grand ideal that his manhood sought;
Yet as he saw the end within his reach,
Death took the sceptre from his failing hand,
And all men said, " He gave his life to teach
The task of honour to a sordid land!"
Within his gates I saw, through all those years,
One at his humble toil with cheery face,
Whom (being dead) the children, half in tears,
Remembered oft, and missed him from his
place.
If he be greater that his people blessed
Than he the children loved, God knoweth best.
[27]
Hnarcbp
1SAW a city filled with lust and shame,
Where men, like wolves, slunk through
the grim half-light;
And sudden, in the midst of it, there came
One who spoke boldly for the cause of Right.
And speaking, fell before that brutish race
Like some poor wren that shrieking eagles tear,
While brute Dishonour, with her bloodless face
Stood by and smote his lips that moved in
prayer.
"Speak not of God! In centuries that word
Hath not been uttered! Our own king are
we."
And God stretched forth his finger as He heard
And o'er it cast a thousand leagues of sea.
[28]
^Disarmament
ONE spake amid the nations, "Let us cease
From darkening with strife the fair
World's light,
We who are great in war be great in peace.
No longer let us plead the cause by might."
But from a million British graves took birth
A silent voice — the million spake as one —
" If ye have righted all the wrongs of earth
Lay by the sword ! I ts work and ours is done."
29
She Beafc flDaeter
AMID earth's vagrant noises, he caught
the note sublime:
To-day around him surges from the
silences of Time
A flood of nobler music, like a river deep and
broad,
Fit song for heroes gathered in the banquet-
hall of God.
30]
Gbe Ibarveet of tbe Sea
THE earth grows white with harvest; all
day long
The sickles gleam, until the darkness
weaves
Her web of silence o'er the thankful song
Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.
The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear,
And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap;
But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear
The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that
weep.
[31]
Ebe Bping of pere flMerre
"... with two other priests; the same night he died,
and was buried by the shores of the lake that bears his name."
Chronicle.
NAY, grieve not that ye can no honour
give
To these poor bones that presently
must be
But carrion; since I have sought to live
Upon God's earth, as He hath guided me,
I shall not lack! Where would ye have me lie?
High heaven is higher than cathedral nave:
Do men paint chancels fairer than the sky? '
Beside the darkened lake they made his grave,
Below the altar of the hills; and night
Swung incense clouds of mist in creeping lines
[32]
ttbe Dpina of p&re pterre
That twisted through the tree-trunks, where
the light
Groped through the arches of the silent pines:
And he, beside the lonely path he trod,
Lay, tombed in splendour, in the House of God.
[331
j£\>entit>e
THE day is past and the toilers cease;
The land grows dim 'mid the shadows
grey,
And hearts are glad, for the dark brings peace
At the close of day.
Each weary toiler, with lingering pace,
As he homeward turns, with the long day done,
Looks out to the west, with the light on his face
Of the setting sun.
Yet some see not (with their sin-dimmed eyes)
The promise of rest in the fading light;
But the clouds loom dark in the angry skies
At the fall of night.
I 341
And some see only a golden sky
Where the elms their welcoming arms stretch
wide
To the calling rooks, as they homeward fly
At the eventide.
It speaks of peace that comes after strife,
Of the rest He sends to the hearts He tried,
Of the calm that follows the stormiest life —
God's eventide.
[351
TDipon Hdatts' picture, "Sic transit"
" What I spent I had ; what I saved, I lost ; what I gave,
I have."
BUT yesterday the tourney, all the eager
joy of life,
The waving of the banners, and the
rattle of the spears,
The clash of sword and harness, and the mad-
ness of the strife;
To-night begin the silence and the peace of
endless years.
(One sings within.)
But yesterday the glory and the prize,
And best of all, to lay it at her feet,
To find my guerdon in her speaking eyes:
I grudge them not, — they pass, albeit sweet.
[36]
Watts' picture, " Sic Uranstt"
The ring of spears, the winning of the fight,
The careless song, the cup, the love of friends,
The earth in spring — to live, to feel the light —
'Twas good the while it lasted: here it ends.
Remain the well-wrought deed in honour done,
The dole for Christ's dear sake, the words that
fall
In kindliness upon some outcast one, —
They seemed so little: now they are my All.
[37]
T
a Song of Comfort
"Sleep, weary ones, while ye may —
Sleep, oh, sleep!"
EUGENE FIELD.
HRO' May time blossoms, with whisper
low,
The soft wind sang to the dead below:
"Think not with regret on the Springtime's
song
And the task ye left while your hands were
strong.
The song would have ceased when the Spring
was past,
And the task that was joyous be weary at
last."
To the winter sky when the nights were long
The tree-tops tossed with a ceaseless song:
[38]
H Song of Comfort
" Do ye think with regret on the sunny days
And the path ye left, with its untrod ways?
The sun might sink in a storm cloud's frown
And the path grow rough when the night came
down."
In the grey twilight of the autumn eves,
It sighed as it sang through the dying leaves:
"Ye think with regret that the world was
bright,
That your path was short and your task was
light;
The path, though short, was perhaps the best
And the toil was sweet, that it led to rest."
39
Gbe pilgrims
AN uphill path, sun-gleams between the
showers,
Where every beam that broke the leaden
sky
Lit other hills with fairer ways than ours;
Some clustered graves where half our memories
lie;
And one grim Shadow creeping ever nigh:
And this was Life.
Wherein we did another's burden seek,
The tired feet we helped upon the road,
The hand we gave the weary and the weak,
The miles we lightened one another's load,
When, faint to falling, onward yet we strode:
This too was Life.
[40!
Ube pilgrims
Till, at the upland, as we turned to go
Amid fair meadows, dusky in the night,
The mists fell back upon the road below;
Broke on our tired eyes the western light;
The very graves were for a moment bright:
And this was Death.
[41
A
Sbafcow of tbe Cross
T the drowsy dusk when the shadows creep
From the golden west, where the sun-
beams sleep,
An angel mused: " Is there good or ill
In the mad world's heart, since on Calvary's hill
'Round the cross a mid-day twilight fell
That darkened earth and o'ershadowed hell?"
Through the streets of a city the angel sped;
Like an open scroll men's hearts he read.
In a monarch's ear his courtiers lied
And humble faces hid hearts of pride.
[42]
ttbe Sbaoow of tbe Cross
Men's hate waxed hot, and their hearts grew
cold,
As they haggled and fought for the lust of gold.
Despairing, he cried, "After all these years
Is there naught but hatred and strife and tears?"
He found two waifs in an attic bare;
— A single crust was their meagre fare —
One strove to quiet the other's cries,
And the love-light dawned in her famished eyes
As she kissed the child with a motherly air:
" I don't need mine, you can have my share."
Then the angel knew that the earthly cross
And the sorrow and shame were not wholly loss.
At dawn, when hushed was earth's busy hum
And men looked not for their Christ to come,
From the attic poor to the palace grand,
The King and the beggar went hand in hand.
[43]
C
Gbe IFUgbt Cometb
OMETH the night. The wind falls low,
The trees swing slowly to and fro:
Around the church the headstones grey
Cluster, like children strayed away
But found again, and folded so.
No chiding look doth she bestow:
If she is glad, they cannot know;
If ill or well they spend their day,
Cometh the night.
Singing or sad, intent they go;
They do not see the shadows grow;
"There yet is time," they lightly say,
" Before our work aside we lay";
Their task is but half-done, and lo!
Cometh the night.
[44]
Hn Due Season
IF night should come and find me at my toil,
When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly,
wrought,
And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil
Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught
If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,
Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?
"Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand
Thy work: the harvest rests with Him alone."
[45
John flftcCrae
Hn Essas in Gbaracter
[47]
3obn
i
" In Flanders Fields," the piece of verse from
which this little book takes its title, first appeared
in Punch in the issue of December 8th, 1915. At
the time I was living in Flanders at a convent in
front of Locre, in shelter of Kemmel Hill, which
lies seven miles south and slightly west of Ypres.
The piece bore no signature, but it was unmistak-
ably from the hand of John McCrae.
From this convent of women which was the
headquarters of the 6th Canadian Field Ambu-
lance, I wrote to John McCrae, who was then
at Boulogne, accusing him of the authorship,
and furnished him with evidence. From mem-
ory— since at the front one carries one book
only — I quoted to him another piece of his own
verse, entitled "The Night Cometh":
"Cometh the night. The wind falls low,
The trees swing slowly to and fro;
Around the church the headstones grey
Cluster, like children stray'd away,
But found again, and folded so."
4 [49]
1fn $ lathers Jffel&s
It will be observed at once by reference to the
text that in form the two poems are identical.
They contain the same number of lines and
feet as surely all sonnets do. Each travels
upon two rhymes with the members of a broken
couplet in widely separated refrain. To the
casual reader this much is obvious, but there are
many subtleties in the verse which made the
authorship inevitable. It was a form upon
which he had worked for years, and made his
own. When the moment arrived the medium
was ready. No other medium could have so
well conveyed the thought.
This familiarity with his verse was not a
matter of accident. For many years I was
editor of the University Magazine, and those
who are curious about such things may discover
that one half of the poems contained in this
little book were first published upon its pages.
This magazine had its origin in McGill Univer-
sity, Montreal, in the year 1902. Four years
later its borders were enlarged to the wider term,
and it strove to express an educated opinion
upon questions immediately concerning Canada,
and to treat freely in a literary way all matters
which have to do with politics, industry, philo-
sophy, science, and art.
To this magazine during those years John
McCrae contributed all his verse. It was there-
[50]
f n Jflan&ers Jfiel&s
fore not unseemly that I should have written
to him, when "In Flanders Fields" appeared in
Punch. Amongst his papers I find my poor
letter, and many others of which something
more might be made if one were concerned
merely with the literary side of his life rather
than with his life itself. Two references will be
enough. Early in 1905 he offered "The Pil-
grims" for publication. I notified him of the
place assigned to it in the magazine, and added
a few words of appreciation, and after all these
years it has come back to me.
The letter is dated February 9th, 1905, and
reads: "I place the poem next to my own buf-
foonery. It is the real stuff of poetry. How
did you make it? What have you to do with
medicine? I was charmed with it: the thought
high, the image perfect, the expression com-
plete; not too reticent, not too full. Videntes
autem stellam gavisi sunt gaudio magno valde.
In our own tongue, — 'slainte filidh.'" To his
mother he wrote, "the Latin is translatable
as, ' seeing the star they rejoiced with exceeding
gladness." For the benefit of those whose
education has proceeded no further than the
Latin, it may be explained that the two last
words mean, " Hail to the poet."
To the inexperienced there is something por-
tentous about an appearance in print and some-
[51]
f n jflan&ers fftelfcs
thing mysterious about the business of an editor.
A legend has already grown up around the pub-
lication of " In Flanders Fields" in Punch. The
truth is, " that the poem was offered in the usual
way and accepted; that is all." The usual way
of offering a piece to an editor is to put it in an
envelope with a postage stamp outside to carry
it there, and a stamp inside to carry it back.
Nothing else helps.
An editor is merely a man who knows his
right hand from his left, good from evil, having
the honesty of a kitchen cook who will not
spoil his confection by favour for a friend. Fear
of a foe is not a temptation, since editors are
too humble and harmless to have any. There
are of course certain slight offices which an editor
can render, especially to those whose writings
he does not intend to print, but John McCrae
required none of these. His work was finished
to the last point. He would bring his piece in
his hand and put it on the table. A wise editor
knows when to keep his mouth shut; but now
I am free to say that he never understood the
nicety of the semi-colon, and his writing was
too heavily stopped.
He was not of those who might say, — take
it or leave it; but rather, — look how perfect it
is; and it was so. Also he was the first to re-
cognize that an editor has some rights and pre-
[52]
fln jflan&ers
judices, that certain words make him sick; that
certain other words he reserves for his own use,
— "meticulous" once a year, "adscititious"
once in a life time. This explains why editors
write so little. In the end, out of mere good
nature, or seeing the futility of it all, they
contribute their words to contributors and write
no more.
The volume of verse as here printed is small.
The volume might be enlarged; it would not be
improved. To estimate the value and institute
a comparison of those herein set forth would be
a congenial but useless task, which may well be
left to those whose profession it is to offer instruc-
tion to the young. To say that "In Flanders
Fields" is not the best would involve one in
controversy. It did give expression to a mood
which at the time was universal, and will re-
main as a permanent record when the mood is
passed away.
The poem was first called to my attention by
a Sapper officer, then Major, now Brigadier.
He brought the paper in his hand from his billet
in Dranoutre. It was printed on page 468, and
Mr. Punch will be glad to be told that, in his
annual index, in theissueof December 29th, 1915,
he has mispelled the author's name, which is
perhaps the only mistake he ever made. This
officer could himself weave the sonnet with
[53]
•ffn planters fftel&s
deft fingers, and he pointed out many deep
things. It is to the sappers the army always
goes for "technical material."
The poem, he explained, consists of thirteen
lines in iambic tetrameter and two lines of two
iambics each; in all, one line more than the
sonnet's count. There are two rhymes only,
since the short lines must be considered blank,
and are, in fact, identical. But it is a difficult
mode. It is true, he allowed, that the octet
of the sonnet has only two rhymes, but these
recur only four times, and the liberty of the
sestet tempers its despotism, — which I thought
a pretty phrase. He pointed out the dangers
inherent in a restricted rhyme, and cited the
case of Browning, the great rhymster, who was
prone to resort to any rhyme, and frequently
ended in absurdity, finding it easier to make a
new verse than to make an end.
At great length — but the December evenings
in Flanders are long, how long, O Lord! — this
Sapper officer demonstrated the skill with which
the rhymes are chosen. They are vocalized.
Consonant endings would spoil the whole effect.
They reiterate O and I, not the O of pain and
the Ay of assent, but the O of wonder, of hope,
of aspiration; and the I of personal pride, of
jealous immortality, of the Ego against the
Universe. They are, he went on to expound, a
[54]
Un Jflanfcers ffiel&s
recurrence of the ancient question: "How are
the dead raised, and with what body do they
come?" "How shall I bear my light across?"
and of the defiant cry: " If Christ be not raised,
then is our faith vain."
The theme has three phases: the first a
calm, a deadly calm, opening statement in five
lines; the second in four lines, an explanation,
a regret, a reiteration of the first; the third,
without preliminary crescendo, breaking out
into passionate adjuration in vivid metaphor,
a poignant appeal which is at once a blessing
and a curse. In the closing line is a satisfying
return to the first phase, — and the thing is done.
One is so often reminded of the poverty of men's
invention, their best being so incomplete, their
greatest so trivial, that one welcomes what —
this Sapper officer surmised — may become a
new and fixed mode of expression in verse.
As to the theme itself — I am using his words:
what is his is mine; what is mine is his — the
interest is universal. The dead, still conscious,
fallen in a noble cause, see their graves over-
blown in a riot of poppy bloom. The poppy is
the emblem of sleep. The dead desire to sleep
undisturbed, but yet curiously take an interest
in passing events. They regret that they have
not been permitted to live out their life to its
normal end. They call on the living to finish
[551
In jflan&ers
their task, else they shall not sink into that
complete repose which they desire, in spite of
the balm of the poppy. Formalists may pro-
test that the poet is not sincere, since it is the
seed and not the flower that produces sleep.
They might as well object that the poet has no
right to impersonate the dead. We common
folk know better. We know that in personating
the dear dead, and calling in bell-like tones on
the inarticulate living, the poet shall be enabled
to break the lightnings of the Beast, and thereby
he, being himself, alas! dead, yet speaketh;
and shall speak, to ones and twos and a host.
As it is written in resonant bronze: vivos .
VOCO . MORTUOS . PLANGO . FULGURA . FRANCO!
words cast by this officer upon a church bell
which still rings in far away Orwell in memory
of his father — and of mine.
By this time the little room was cold. For
some reason the guns had awakened in the
Salient. An Indian trooper who had just come
up, and did not yet know the orders, blew
"Lights out," — on a cavalry trumpet. The
sappers work by night. The officer turned and
went his way to his accursed trenches, leaving
the verse with me.
John McCrae witnessed only once the raw
earth of Flanders hide its shame in the warm
scarlet glory of the poppy. Others have watched
[56]
in jplanfcers tfielbs
this resurrection of the flowers in four successive
seasons, a fresh miracle every time it occurs.
Also they have observed the rows of crosses
lengthen, the torch thrown, caught, and carried
to victory. The dead may sleep. We have not
broken faith with them.
It is little wonder then that "In Flanders
Fields" has become the poem of the army. The
soldiers have learned it with their hearts, which
is quite a different thing from committing it
to memory. It circulates, as a song should
circulate, by the living word of mouth, not by
printed characters. That is the true test of
poetry, — its insistence on making itself learnt
by heart. The army has varied the text; but
each variation only serves to reveal more clearly
the mind of the maker. The army says,
"Among the crosses"; "felt dawn and sunset
glow"; "Lived and were loved." The army
may be right: it usually is.
Nor has any piece of verse in recent years been
more widely known in the civilian world. It
was used on every platform from which men
were being adjured to adventure their lives or
their riches in the great trial through which
the present generation has passed. Many
"replies" have been made. The best I have
seen was written in the New York Evening Post.
None but those who were prepared to die before
[57]
Mitb tbe <3uns
Vimy Ridge that early April day of 1916 will
ever feel fully the great truth of Mr. Lillard's
opening lines, as they speak for all Americans:
"Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders dead.
The fight that ye so bravely led
We've taken up."
They did — and bravely. They heard the cry
— " If ye break faith, we shall not sleep."
II
If there was nothing remarkable about the
publication of "In Flanders Fields," there was
something momentous in the moment of writ-
ing it. And yet it was a sure instinct which
prompted the writer to send it to Punch. A
rational man wishes to know the news of the
world in which he lives; and if he is interested
in life, he is eager to know how men feel and
comport themselves amongst the events which
are passing. For this purpose Punch is the
great newspaper of the world, and these lines
describe better than any other how men felt
in that great moment.
It was in April, 1915. The enemy was in
the full cry of victory. All that remained for
him was to occupy Paris, as once he did before,
and to seize the Channel ports. Then France,
England, and the world were doomed. All
TOtb tbe <3uns
winter the German had spent in repairing his
plans, which had gone somewhat awry on the
Marne. He had devised his final stroke, and
it fell upon the Canadians at Ypres. This
battle, known as the second battle of Ypres,
culminated on April 22nd, but it really extended
over the whole month.
The inner history of war is written from the
recorded impressions of men who have endured
it. John McCrae in a series of letters to his
mother, cast in the form of a diary, has set
down in words the impressions which this event
of the war made upon a peculiarly sensitive
mind. The account is here transcribed without
any attempt at "amplification," or "clarifying"
by notes upon incidents or references to places.
These are only too well known.
Friday, April 23rd, 1915.
As we moved up last evening, there was heavy firing
about 4.30 on our left, the hour at which the general attack
with gas was made when the French line broke. We could
see the shells bursting over Ypres, and in a small village
to our left, meeting General , C.R.A., of one of the
divisions, he ordered us to halt for orders. We sent for-
ward notifications to our Headquarters, and sent out
orderlies to get in touch with the batteries of the farther
forward brigades already in action. The story of these
guns will be read elsewhere. They had a tough time, but
got away safely, and did wonderful service. One battery
fired in two opposite directions at once, and both batteries
[59]
Mitb tbe Guns
fired at point blank, open sights, at Germans in the open.
They were at times quite without infantry on their front,
for their position was behind the French to the left of the
British line.
As we sat on the road we began to see the French
stragglers — men without arms, wounded men, teams,
wagons, civilians, refugees — some by the roads, some across
country, all talking, shouting — the very picture of debacle.
I must say they were the "tag enders" of a fighting line
rather than the line itself. They streamed on, and shouted
to us scraps of not too inspiriting information while we
stood and took our medicine, and picked out gun positions
in the fields in case we had to go in there and then. The
men were splendid; not a word; not a shake, and it was
a terrific test. Traffic whizzed by — ambulances, trans-
port, ammunition, supplies, despatch riders — and the
shells thundered into the town, or burst high in the air
nearer us, and the refugees streamed. Women, old men,
little children, hopeless, tearful, quiet or excited, tired,
dodging the traffic, — and the wounded in singles or in
groups. Here and there I could give a momentary help,
and the ambulances picked up as they could. So the
cold moonlight night wore on — no change save that the
towers of Ypres showed up against the glare of the city
burning; and the shells still sailed in.
At 9.30 our ammunition column (the part that had
been "in") appeared. Major had waited, like Casa-
bianca, for orders until the Germans were 500 yards away;
then he started, getting safely away save for one wagon
lost, and some casualties in men and horses. He found
our column, and we prepared to send forward ammunition
as soon as we could learn where the batteries had taken
up position in retiring, for retire they had to. Eleven,
twelve, and finally grey day broke, and we still waited.
At 3.45 word came to go in and support a French counter-
[60]
TTClttb tbe (Buns
attack at 4.30 A.M. Hastily we got the order spread; it
was 4 A.M. and three miles to go.
Of one's feelings all this night — of the asphyxiated French
soldiers — of the women and children — of the cheery,
steady British reinforcements that moved up quietly
past us, going up, not back — I could write, but you can
imagine.
We took the road at once, and went up at the gallop.
The Colonel rode ahead to scout a position (we had only
four guns, part of the ammunition column, and the brigade
staff; the ist and 4th batteries were back in reserve at
our last billet). Along the roads we went, and made our
place on time, pulled up for ten minutes just short of the
position, where I put Bonfire [his horse] with my groom
in a farmyard, and went forward on foot — only a quarter
of a mile or so — then we advanced. Bonfire had soon to
move; a shell killed a horse about four yards away from
him, and he wisely took other ground. Meantime we
went on into the position we were to occupy for seventeen
days, though we could not guess that. I can hardly say
more than that it was near the Yser Canal.
We got into action at once, under heavy gunfire. We
were to the left entirely of the British line, and be-
hind French troops, and so we remained for eight days.
A Colonel of the R.A., known to fame, joined us and
camped with us; he was our link with the French Head-
quarters, and was in local command of the guns in this
locality. When he left us eight days later he said, "I am
glad to get out of this hell-hole." He was a great comfort
to us, for he is very capable, and the entire battle was
largely fought "on our own," following the requests of the
Infantry on our front, and scarcely guided by our own
staff at all. We at once set out to register our targets,
and almost at once had to get into steady firing on quite a
large sector of front. We dug in the guns as quickly as we
[61]
lUitb tbe (Buns
could, and took as Headquarters some infantry trenches
already sunk on a ridge near the canal. We were sub-
ject from the first to a steady and accurate shelling,
for we were all but in sight, as were the German trenches
about 2000 yards to our front. At times the fire would
come in salvos quickly repeated. Bursts of fire would be
made for ten or fifteen minutes at a time. We got all
varieties of projectile, from 3 inch to 8 inch, or perhaps 10
inch; the small ones usually as air bursts, the larger
percussion and air, and the heaviest percussion only.
My work began almost from the start — steady but
never overwhelming, except perhaps once for a few minutes.
A little cottage behind our ridge served as a cook-house,
but was so heavily hit the second day that we had to be
chary of it. During bursts of fire I usually took the back
slope of the sharply crested ridge for what shelter it offered.
At 3 our ist and 4th arrived, and went into action at
once a few hundred yards in our rear. Wires were at
once put out, to be cut by shells hundreds and hundreds
of times, but always repaired by our indefatigable line-
men. So the day wore on; in the night the shelling still
kept up: three different German attacks were made and
repulsed. If we suffered by being close up, the Germans
suffered from us, for already tales of good shooting came
down to us. I got some sleep despite the constant firing,
for we had none last night.
Saturday, April 34th, 1915.
Behold us now anything less than two miles north of
Ypres on the west side of the canal; this runs north, each
bank flanked with high elms, with bare trunks of the famil-
iar Netherlands type. A few yards to the West a main
road runs, likewise bordered; the Censor will allow me to
say that on the high bank between these we had our head-
quarters; the ridge is perhaps fifteen to twenty feet high,
[62]
Wttb tbe (Buns
and slopes forward fifty yards to the water, the back is
more steep, and slopes quickly to a little subsidiary water
way, deep but dirty. Where the guns were I shall not say;
but they were not far, and the German aeroplanes that
viewed us daily with all but impunity knew very well.
A road crossed over the canal, and interrupted the ridge;
across the road from us was our billet — the place we cooked
in, at least, and where we usually took our meals. Look-
ing to the south between the trees, we could see the ruins
of the city: to the front on the sky line, with rolling ground
in the front, pitted by French trenches, the German
lines; to the left front, several farms and a windmill,
and farther left, again near the canal, thicker trees and
more farms. The farms and windmills were soon burnt.
Several farms we used for observing posts were also quickly
burnt during the next three or four days. All along be-
hind us at varying distances French and British guns;
the flashes at night lit up the sky.
These high trees were at once a protection and a danger.
Shells that struck them were usually destructive. When
we came in the foliage was still very thin. Along the
road, which was constantly shelled "on spec" by the
Germans, one saw all the sights of war: wounded men
limping or carried, ambulances, trains of supply, troops,
army mules, and tragedies. I saw one bicycle orderly: a
shell exploded and he seemed to pedal on for eight or ten
revolutions and then collapsed in a heap — dead. Strag-
gling soldiers would be killed or wounded, horses also, until
it got to be a nightmare. I used to shudder every time I
saw wagons or troops on that road. My dugout looked
out on it. I got a square hole, 8 by 8, dug in the side of
the hill (west), roofed over with remnants to keep out the
rain, and a little sandbag parapet on the back to prevent
pieces of "back-kick shells" from coming in, or prematures
from our own or the French guns for that matter. Some
[63]
tbe Guns
straw on the floor completed it. The ground was treach-
erous and a slip the first night nearly buried - . So
we had to be content with walls straight up and down,
and trust to the height of the bank for safety. All places
along the bank were more or less alike, all squirrel holes.
This morning we supported a heavy French attack at
4.30; there had been three German attacks in the night,
and everyone was tired. We got heavily shelled. In all
eight or ten of our trees were cut by shells — cut right off,
the upper part of the tree subsiding heavily and straight
down, as a usual thing. One would think a piece a foot
long was just instantly cut out; and these trees were
about 1 8 inches in diameter. The gas fumes came very
heavily: some blew down from the infantry trenches,
some came from the shells: one's eyes smarted, and breath-
ing was very laboured. Up to noon to-day we fired 2500
rounds. Last night Col. Morrison and I slept at a French
Colonel's headquarters near by, and in the night our room
was filled up with wounded. I woke up and shared my
bed with a chap with "a wounded leg and a chill." Prob-
ably thirty wounded were brought into the one little room.
Col. - , R.A., kept us in communication with the
French General in whose command we were. I bunked
down in the trench on the top of the ridge: the sky was
red with the glare of the city still burning, and we could
hear the almost constant procession of large shells sailing
over from our left front into the city : the crashes of their
explosion shook the ground where we were. After a ter-
ribly hard day, professionally and otherwise, I slept well,
but it rained and the trench was awfully muddy and wet.
Sunday, April asth, 1915.
The weather brightened up, and we got at it again.
This day we had several heavy attacks, prefaced by heavy
artillery fire; these bursts of fire would result in our get-
[64]
lUitb tbe (Buns
ting 100 to 150 rounds right on us or nearby: the heavier
our fire (which was on the trenches entirely) the heavier
theirs.
Our food supply came up at dusk in wagons, and the
water was any we could get, but of course treated with
chloride of lime. The ammunition had to be brought
down the roads at the gallop, and the more firing the more
wagons. The men would quickly carry the rounds to
the guns, as the wagons had to halt behind our hill. The
good old horses would swing around at the gallop, pull up
in an instant, and stand puffing and blowing, but with
their heads up, as if to say, "Wasn't that well done?"
It makes you want to kiss their dear old noses, and assure
them of a peaceful pasture once more. To-day we got
our dressing station dugout complete, and slept there at
night.
Three farms in succession burned on our front — colour
in the otherwise dark. The flashes of shells over the
front and rear in all directions. The city still burning
and the procession still going on. I dressed a number
of French wounded; one Turco prayed to Allah and
Mohammed all the time I was dressing his wound. On
the front field one can see the dead lying here and there,
and in places where an assault has been they lie very thick
on the front slopes of the German trenches. Our tele-
phone wagon team hit by a shell; two horses killed and
another wounded. I did what I could for the wounded one,
and he subsequently got well. This night, beginning after
dark, we got a terrible shelling, which kept up till 2 or 3
in the morning. Finally I got to sleep, though it was still
going on. We must have got a couple of hundred rounds,
in single or pairs. Every one burst over us, would light
up the dugout, and every hit in front would shake the
ground and bring down small bits of earth on us, or else
the earth thrown into the air by the explosion would
* [65]
tditb tbe <3uns
come spattering down on our roof, and into the front of
the dugout. Col. Morrison tried the mess house, but the
shelling was too heavy, and he and the adjutant joined
Cosgrave and me, and we four spent an anxious night
there in the dark. One officer was on watch "on the
bridge" (as we called the trench at the top of the ridge)
with the telephones.
Monday, April a6th, 1915.
Another day of heavy actions, but last night much
French and British artillery has come in, and the place is
thick with Germans. There are many prematures (with
so much firing) but the pieces are usually spread before
they get to us. It is disquieting, however, I must say.
And all the time the birds sing in the trees over our heads.
Yesterday up to noon we fired 3000 rounds for the twenty-
four hours; to-day we have fired much less, but we have
registered fresh fronts, and burned some farms behind the
German trenches. About six the fire died down, and we
had a peaceful evening and night, and Cosgrave and I in
the dugout made good use of it. The Colonel has an
individual dugout, and Dodds sleeps "topside" in the
trench. To all this, put in a background of anxiety lest
the line break, for we are just where it broke before.
Tuesday, April ayth, 1915.
This morning again registering batteries on new points.
At 1.30 a heavy attack was prepared by the French and
ourselves. The fire was very heavy for half an hour and
the enemv got busy too. I had to cross over to the bat-
teries during it, an unpleasant journey. More gas at-
t°cks in the afternoon. The French did not appear to
p-ess the attack hard, but in the light of subsequent
events it probably was only a feint. It seems likely that
about this time our people began to thin out the artillery
[66]
Mitb tbe Guns
again for use elsewhere; but this did not at once become
apparent. At night usually the heavies farther back
take up the story, and there is a duel. The Germans
fire on our roads after dark to catch reliefs and transport.
I suppose ours do the same.
Wednesday, April 28th, 1915.
I have to confess to an excellent sleep last night. At
times anxiety says, "I don't want a meal," but experience
says "you need your food," so I attend regularly to that.
The billet is not too safe either. Much German air re-
connaissance over us, and heavy firing from both sides
during the day. At 6.45 we again prepared a heavy artil-
lery attack, but the infantry made little attempt to go on.
We are perhaps the "chopping block," and our "prepara-
tions" may be chiefly designed to prevent detachments
of troops being sent from our front elsewhere.
I have said nothing of what goes on on our right and
left; but it is equally part and parcel of the whole game;
this eight mile front is constantly heavily engaged. At
intervals, too, they bombard Ypres. Our back lines, too,
have to be constantly shifted on account of shell fire, and
we have desultory but constant losses there. In the
evening rifle fire gets more frequent, and bullets are con-
stantly singing over us. Some of them are probably
ricochets, for we are 1800 yards, or nearly, from the
nearest German trench.
Thursday, April 29th, 1915.
This morning our billet was hit. We fire less these
days, but still a good deal. There was a heavy French
attack on our left. The "gas" attacks can be seen from
here. The yellow cloud rising up is for us a signal to open,
and we do. The wind is from our side to-day, and a good
thing it is. Several days ago during the firing a big Oxford-
[67]
lUttb tbe Guns
grey dog, with beautiful brown eyes, came to us in a
panic. He ran to me, and pressed his head hard against
my leg. So I got him a safe place and he sticks by us.
We call him Fleabag, for he looks like it.
This night they shelled us again heavily for some hours —
the same shorts, hits, overs on percussion, and great
yellow-green air bursts. One feels awfully irritated by
the constant din — a mixture of anger and apprehension.
Friday. April 30th, 1915.
Thick mist this morning, and relative quietness; but
before it cleared the Germans started again to shell us.
At 10 it cleared, and from 10 to 2 we fired constantly.
The French advanced, and took some ground on our left
front and a batch of prisoners. This was at a place we
call Twin Farms. Our men looked curiously at the Boches
as they were marched through. Some better activity in
the afternoon by the Allies' aeroplanes. The German
planes have had it too much their way lately. Many of
to-day's shells have been very large — 10 or 12 inch; a
lot of tremendous holes dug in the fields just behind us.
Saturday, May rst, 1915.
May day! Heavy bombardment at intervals through
the day. Another heavy artillery preparation at 3.25,
but no French advance. We fail to understand why, but
orders go. We suffered somewhat during the day.
Through the evening and night heavy firing at intervals.
Sunday, May and, 1915.
Heavy gunfire again this morning. Lieut. H was
killed at the guns. His diary's last words were, "It has
quieted a little and I shall try to get a good sleep." I
said the Committal Service over him, as well as I could
from memory. A soldier's death! Batteries again re-
[68]
Mitb tbe Guns
gistering barrages or barriers of fire at set ranges. At
3 the Germans attacked, preceded by gas clouds. Fight-
ing went on for an hour and a half, during which their
guns hammered heavily with some loss to us. The French
lines are very uneasy, and we are correspondingly anx-
ious. The infantry fire was very heavy, and we fired
incessantly, keeping on into the night. Despite the
heavy fire I got asleep at 12, and slept until daylight which
comes at 3.
Monday, May 3rd, 1915.
A clear morning, and the accursed German aeroplanes
over our positions again. They are usually fired at, but
no luck. To-day a shell on our hill dug out a cannon
ball about six inches in diameter — probably of Napoleon's
or earlier times — heavily rusted. A German attack
began, but half an hour of artillery fire drove it back.
Major , R.A., was up forward, and could see the Ger-
man reserves. Our 4th was turned on: first round 100
over; shortened and went into gunfire, and his report was
that the effect was perfect. The same occurred again in
the evening, and again at midnight. The Germans were
reported to be constantly massing for attack, and we as
constantly "went to them." The German guns shelled
us as usual at intervals. This must get very tiresome to
read; but through it all, it must be mentioned that the
constantly broken communications have to be mended,
rations and ammunition brought up, the wounded to be
dressed and got away. Our dugouts have the French
Engineers and French Infantry next door by turns. They
march in and out. The back of the hill is a network of
wires, so that one has to go carefully.
Tuesday, May 4th, 1915.
Despite intermittent shelling and some casualties the
quietest day yet; but we live in an uneasy atmosphere as
[69]
Witb tbe <3uns
German attacks are constantly being projected, and our
communications are interrupted and scrappy. We get
no news of any sort and have just to sit tight and hold on.
Evening closed in rainy and dark. Our dugout is very
slenderly provided against it, and we get pretty wet and
very dirty. In the quieter morning hours we get a chance
of a wash and occasionally a shave.
Wednesday, May sth, 1913.
Heavily hammered in the morning from 7 to 9, but at
9 it let up; the sun came out and things looked better.
Evidently our line has again been thinned of artillery and
the requisite minimum to hold is left. There were German
attacks to our right, just out of our area. Later on we
and they both fired heavily, the first battery getting it
especially hot. The planes over us again and again, to
coach the guns. An attack expected at dusk, but it turned
only to heavy night shelling, so that with our fire, theirs,
and the infantry cracking away constantly, we got sleep
in small quantity all night; bullets whizzing over us con-
stantly. Heavy rain from 5 to 8, and everything wet
except the far-in corner of the dugout, where we mass
our things to keep them as dry as we may.
Thursday. May 6th, 1915.
After the rain a bright morning; the leaves and blos-
soms are coming out. We ascribe our quietude to a wel-
come flock of allied planes which are over this morning.
The Germans attacked at eleven, and again at six in the
afternoon, each meaning a waking up of heavy artillery
on the whole frotlt. In the evening we had a little rain
at intervals, but it was light.
Friday, May 7th, 1915.
A bright morning early, but clouded over later. The
Germans gave it to us very heavily. There was heavy
Witb tbe (Buns
fighting to the south-east of us. Two attacks or threats,
and we went in again.
Saturday, May 8th, 1915.
For the last three days we have been under British
divisional control, and supporting our own men who have
been put farther to the left, till they are almost in front of
us. It is an added comfort. We have four officers out
with various infantry regiments for observation and co-
operation; they have to stick it in trenches, as all the
houses and barns are burned. The whole front is con-
stantly ablaze with big gunfire; the racket never ceases.
We have now to do most of the work for our left, as our
line appears to be much thinner than it was. A German
attack followed the shelling at 7; we were fighting hard
till 12, and less regularly all the afternoon. We suffered
much, and at one time were down to seven guns. Of these
two were smoking at every joint, and the levers were so
hot that the gunners used sacking for their hands. The
pace is now much hotter, and the needs of the infantry for
fire more insistent. The guns are in bad shape by reason
of dirt, injuries, and heat. The wind fortunately blows
from us, so there is no gas, but the attacks are still very
heavy. Evening brought a little quiet, but very disquiet-
ing news (which afterwards proved untrue) ; and we had
to face a possible retirement. You may imagine our state
of mind, unable to get anything sure in the uncertainty,
except that we should stick out as long as the guns would
fire, and we could fire them. That sort of night brings a
man down to his "bare skin, " I promise you. The night
was very cold, and not a cheerful one.
Sunday, May pth, 1915.
At 4 we were ordered to get ready to move, and the
Adjutant picked out new retirement positions; but a
little later better news came, and the daylight and sun
tuttb tbe Guns
revived us a bit. As I sat in my dugout a little white and
black dog with tan spots bolted in over the parapet, during
heavy firing, and going to the farthest corner began to dig
furiously. Having scraped out a pathetic little hole two
inches deep, she sat down and shook, looking most plain-
tively at me. A few minutes later, her owner came along,
a French soldier. Bissac was her name, but she would
not leave me at the time. When I sat down a little later,
she stole out and shyly crawled in between me and the
wall; she stayed by me all day, and I hope got later on to
safe quarters.
Firing kept up all day. In thirty hours we had fired
3600 rounds, and at times with seven, eight, or nine guns;
our wire cut and repaired eighteen times. Orders came
to move, and we got ready. At dusk we got the guns out
by hand, and all batteries assembled at a given spot in
comparative safety. We were much afraid they would
open on us, for at 10 o'clock they gave us 100 or 150
rounds, hitting the trench parapet again and again. How-
ever, we were up the road, the last wagon half a mile
away before they opened. One burst near me, and splat-
tered some pieces around, but we got clear, and by 12
were out of the usual fire zone. Marched all night, tired
as could be, but happy to be clear.
I was glad to get on dear old Bonfire again. We made
about sixteen miles, and got to our billets at dawn. I
had three or four hours' sleep, and arose to a peaceful
breakfast. We shall go back to the line elsewhere very
soon, but it is a present relief, and the next place is sure
to be better, for it cannot be worse. Much of this nar-
rative is bald and plain, but it tells our part in a really
great battle. I have only had hasty notes to go by; in
conversation there is much one could say that would be
of greater interest. Heard of the Lusitania disaster on
our road out. A terrible affair!
[72]
•QOlftb tbe (Suns
Here ends the account of his part in this
memorable battle, and here follow some general
observations upon the experience:
NORTHERN FRANCE, May roth, 1915.
We got here to refit and rest this morning at 4, having
marched last night at 10. The general impression in my
mind is of a nightmare. We have been in the most bitter
of fights. For seventeen days and seventeen nights none
of us have had our clothes off, nor our boots even, except
occasionally. In all that time while I was awake, gunfire
and rifle fire never ceased for sixty seconds, and it was
sticking to our utmost by a weak line all but ready to
break, knowing nothing of what was going on, and de-
pressed by reports of anxious infantry. The men and the
divisions are worthy of all praise that can be given. It
did not end in four days when many of our infantry were
taken out. It kept on at fever heat till yesterday.
This, of course, is the second battle of Ypres, or the
battle of the Yser, I do not know which. At one time we
were down to seven guns, but those guns were smoking
at every joint, the gunners using cloth to handle the
breech levers because of the heat. We had three batteries
in action with four guns added from the other units. Our
casualties were half the number of men in the firing line.
The horse lines and the wagon lines farther back suffered
less, but the Brigade list has gone far higher than any
artillery normal. I know one brigade R.A. that was in
the Mons retreat and had about the same. I have done
what fell to hand. My clothes, boots, kit, and dugout
at various times were sadly bloody. Two of our batteries
are reduced to two officers each. We have had constant
accurate shell-fire, but we have given back no less. And
behind it all was the constant background of the sights of
[73]
lUith tbe Gnus
the dead, the wounded, the maimed, and a terrible anxiety
lest the line should give way.
During all this time, we have been behind French troops,
and only helping our own people by oblique fire when
necessary. Our horses have suffered heavily too. Bon-
fire had a light wound from a piece of shell; it is healing and
the dear old fellow is very fit. Had my first ride for
seventeen days last night. We never saw horses but with
the wagons bringing up the ammunition. When fire was
hottest they had to come two miles on a road terribly
swept, and they did it magnificently. But how tired we
are! Weary in body and wearier in mind. None of our
men went off their heads but men in units nearby did —
and no wonder.
PRANCE. May I2th, 1915.
I am glad you had your mind at rest by the rumour that
we were in reserve. What newspaper work! The poor
old artillery never gets any mention, and the whole show
is the infantry. It may interest you to note on your
map a spot on the west bank of the canal, a mile and a
half north of Ypres, as the scene of our labours. There
can be no harm in saying so, now that we are out of it.
The unit was the most advanced of all the Allies' guns by
a good deal except one French battery which stayed in a
position yet more advanced for two days, and then had
to be taken out. I think it may be said that we saw the
show from the soup to the coffee.
FRANCE. May i?th, 1915.
The farther we get away from Ypres the more we learn
of the enormous power the Germans put in to push us
over. Lord only knows how many men they had, and
how many they lost. I wish I could embody on paper
some of the varied sensations of that seventeen days.
(74 I
lUitb tbe <3un0
All the gunners down this way passed us all sorts of kudos
over it. Our guns — those behind us, from which we had
to dodge occasional prematures — have a peculiar bang-
sound added to the sharp crack of discharge. The French
75 has a sharp wood-block-chop sound, and the shell goes
over with a peculiar whine — not unlike a cat, but begin-
ning with n — thus, — n-eouw. The big fellows, 3000
yards or more behind, sounded exactly like our own, but
the flash came three or four seconds before the sound.
Of the German shells — the field guns come with a great
velocity — no warning — just whizz-bang; white smoke,
nearly always air bursts. The next size, probably 5
inch howitzers, have a perceptible time of approach, an
increasing whine, and a great burst on the percussion —
dirt in all directions. And even if a shell hit on the front
of the canal bank, and one were on the back of the bank,
five, eight, or ten seconds later one would hear a belated
whirr, and curved pieces of shell would light — probably
parabolic curves or boomerangs. These shells have a
great back kick; from the field gun shrapnel we got noth-
ing behind the shell — all the pieces go forward. Prom the
howitzers, the danger is almost as great behind as in
front if they burst on percussion. Then the large shrapnel
— air-burst — have a double explosion, as if a giant shook
a wet sail for two flaps; first a dark green burst of smoke;
then a lighter yellow burst goes out from the centre,
forwards. I do not understand the why of it.
Then the ro-inch shells: a deliberate whirring course —
a deafening explosion — black smoke, and earth 70 or 80
feet in the air. These always burst on percussion. The
constant noise of our own guns is really worse on the nerves
than the shell; there is the deafening noise, and the con-
stant whirr of shells going overhead. The earth shakes
with every nearby gun and every close shell. I think I
may safely enclose a cross section of our position. The
t75l
lUitb tbe (Buns
left is the front: a slope down of 20 feet in 100 yards to
the canal, a high row of trees on each bank, then a short
40 yards slope up to the summit of the trench, where the
brain of the outfit was; then a telephone wired slope, and
on the sharp slope, the dugouts, including my own. The
nondescript affair on the low slope is the gun position,
behind it the men's shelter pits. Behind my dugout was
a rapid small stream, on its far bank a row of pollard
willows, then 30 yards of field, then a road with two paral-
lel rows of high trees. Behind this again, several hundred
yards of fields to cross before the main gun positions are
reached.
More often fire came from three quarters left, and be-
cause our ridge died away there was a low spot over
which they could come pretty dangerously. The road
thirty yards behind us was a nightmare to me. I saw all
the tragedies of war enacted there. A wagon, or a bunch
of horses, or a stray man, or a couple of men, would get
there just in time for a shell. One would see the absolute
knock-out, and the obviously lightly wounded crawling
off on hands and knees; or worse yet, at night, one would
hear the tragedy — "that horse scream" — or the man's
moan. All our own wagons had to come there (one every
half hour in smart action), be emptied, and the ammuni-
tion carried over by hand. Do you wonder that the road
got on our nerves? On this road, too, was the house
where we took our meals. It was hit several times, win-
dows all blown in by nearby shells, but one end remained
for us.
Seventeen days of Hades! At the end of the first day
if anyone had told us we had to spend seventeen days
there, we would have folded our hands and said it could
not be done. On the fifteenth day we got orders to go
out, but that was countermanded in two hours. To the
last we could scarcely believe we were actually to get out.
[76]
Facsimile of a sketch by John McCrae on the back of a card
TWUtb tbe Guns
The real audacity of the position was its safety; the
Germans knew to a foot where we were. I think I told
you of some of the "you must stick it out" messages we
got from our [French] General, — they put it up to us.
It is a wonder to me that we slept when, and how, we did.
If we had not slept and eaten as well as possible we could
not have lasted. And while we were doing this, the
London office of a Canadian newspaper cabled home
"Canadian Artillery in reserve." Such is fame!
Thursday, May 27th, 1915.
Day cloudy and chilly. We wore our greatcoats most
of the afternoon, and looked for bits of sunlight to get warm.
About two o'clock the heavy guns gave us a regular "black-
smithing." Every time we fired we drew a perfect hor-
net's nest about our heads. While attending to a casualty,
a shell broke through both sides of the trench, front and
back, about twelve feet away. The zigzag of the trench
was between it and us, and we escaped. From my bunk
the moon looks down at me, and the wind whistles along
the trench like a corridor. As the trenches run in all
directions they catch the wind however it blows, so one is
always sure of a good draught. We have not had our
clothes off since last Saturday, and there is no near pros-
pect of getting them off.
Friday, May 28th, 1915.
Warmer this morning and sunny, a quiet morning, as
far as we were concerned. One battery fired twenty
rounds and the rest "sat tight." Newspapers which
arrive show that up to May 7th, the Canadian public has
made no guess at the extent of the battle of Ypres. The
Canadian papers seem to have lost interest in it after the
first four days; this regardless of the fact that the artil-
lery, numerically a quarter of the division, was in all the
[77]
Mitb tbe (Buna
time. One correspondent writes from the Canadian rest
camp, and never mentions Ypres. Others say they hear
heavy bombarding which appears to come from Armen-
tieres.
A few strokes will complete the picture:
Wednesday, April 29th, 1915.
This morning is the sixth day of this fight; it has been
constant, except that we got good chance to sleep for the
last two nights. Our men have fought beyond praise.
Canadian soldiers have set a standard for themselves
which will keep posterity busy to surpass. And the War
Office published that the 4. i guns captured were Canadian.
They were not: the division has not lost a gun so far by
capture. We will make a good job of it — if we can.
May ist, 1915.
This is the ninth day that we have stuck to the ridge,
and the batteries have fought with a steadiness which is
beyond all praise. If I could say what our casualties in
men, guns, and horses were, you would see at a glance it
has been a hot corner; but we have given better than we
got, for the German casualties from this front have been
largely from artillery, except for the French attack of
yesterday and the day before, when they advanced appre-
ciably on our left. The front, however, just here remains
where it was, and the artillery fire is very heavy — I think
as heavy here as on any part of the line, with the excep-
tion of certain cross-roads which are the particular object
of fire. The first four days the anxiety was wearing, for
we did not know at what minute the German army corps
would come for us. We lie out in support of the French
troops entirely, and are working with them. Since that
time evidently great reinforcements have come in, and
(781
Witb tbe (Buns
now we have a most formidable force of artillery to turn
on them.
Fortunately the weather has been good; the days are
hot and summerlike. Yesterday in the press of bad smells
I got a whiff of a hedgerow in bloom. The birds perch
on the trees over our heads and twitter away as if there
was nothing to worry about. Bonfire is still well. I
do hope he gets through all right.
FLANDERS, March aoth, 1915.
The Brigade is actually in twelve different places. The
ammunition column and the horse and wagon lines are
back, and my corporal visits them every day. I attend
the gun lines; any casualty is reported by telephone, and
I go to it. The wounded and sick stay where they are till
dark, when the field ambulances go over certain grounds
and collect. A good deal of suffering is entailed by the
delay till night, but it is useless for vehicles to go on the
roads within 1500 yards of the trenches. They are willing
enough to go. Most of the trench injuries are of the head,
and therefore there is a high proportion of killed in the
daily warfare as opposed to an attack. Our Canadian
plots fill up rapidly.
And here is one last note to his mother:
On the eve of the battle of Ypres I was indebted to you
for a letter which said "take good care of my son Jack,
but I would not have you unmindful that, sometimes,
when we save we lose." I have that last happy phrase to
thank. Often when I had to go out over the areas that
were being shelled, it came into my mind. I would
shoulder the box, and "go to it."
At this time the Canadian division was mov-
ing south to take its share in the events that
[791
Mttb tbe (Buns
happened in the La Bassee sector. Here is
the record:
Tuesday, June ist, 1915.
iH miles northeast of Festubert, near La Bassee.
Last night a 15 pr. and a 4-inch howitzer fired at inter-
vals of five minutes from 8 till 4; most of them within
500 or 600 yards — a very tiresome procedure; much of it
is on registered roads. In the morning I walked out to
Le Touret to the wagon lines, got Bonfire, and rode to
the headquarters at Vendin-lez-Bethune, a little village
a mile past Bethune. Left the horse at the lines and
walked back again. An unfortunate shell in the ist killed
a sergeant and wounded two men; thanks to the strong
emplacements the rest of the crew escaped. In the
evening went around the batteries and said good-bye.
We stood by while they laid away the sergeant who was
killed. Kind hands have made two pathetic little wreaths
of roses; the grave under an apple-tree, and the moon
rising over the horizon; a siege-lamp held for the book.
Of the last 41 days the guns have been in action 33.
Captain Lockhart, late with Fort Garry Horse, arrived to
relieve me. I handed over, came up to the horse lines,
and slept in a covered wagon in a courtyard. We were all
sorry to part — the four of us have been very intimate and
had agreed perfectly — and friendships under these cir-
cumstances are apt to be the real thing I am sorry to
leave them in such a hot corner, but cannot choose and
must obey orders. It is a great relief from strain, I must
admit, to be out, but I could wish that they all were.
This phase of the war lasted two months pre-
cisely, and to John McCrae it must have seemed
a lifetime since he went into this memorable
action. The events preceding the second battle
[80]
IClitb tbe Guns
of Ypres received scant mention in his letters;
but one remains, which brings into relief one of
the many moves of that tumultuous time.
April ist, 1915.
We moved out in the late afternoon, getting on the road
a little after dark. Such a move is not unattended by
danger, for to bring horses and limbers down the roads in
the shell zone in daylight renders them liable to observa-
tion, aerial or otherwise. More than that, the roads are
now beginning to be dusty, and at all times there is the
noise which carries far. The roads are nearly all registered
in their battery books, so if they suspect a move, it is
the natural thing to loose off a few rounds. However, our
anxiety was not borne out, and we got out of the danger
zone by 8.30 — a not too long march in the dark, and then
for the last of the march a glorious full moon. The houses
everywhere are as dark as possible, and on the roads
noises but no lights. One goes on by the long rows of
trees that are so numerous in this country, on cobble-
stones and country roads, watching one's horses' ears
wagging, and seeing not much else. Our maps are well
studied before we start, and this time we are not far out
of familiar territory. We got to our new billet about 10
— quite a good farmhouse; and almost at once one feels
the relief of the strain of being in the shell zone. I cannot
say I had noticed it when there; but one is distinctly
relieved when out of it.
Such, then, was the life in Flanders fields in
which the verse was born. This is no mere
surmise. There is a letter from Major-General
E. W. B. Morrison, C.B., C.M.G., D.S.O., who
commanded the Brigade at the time, which is
6 [81]
Iditb tbe Guns
quite explicit. "This poem," General Morrison
writes, "was literally born of fire and blood
during the hottest phase of the second battle
of Ypres. My headquarters were in a trench
on the top of the bank of the Ypres Canal,
and John had his dressing station in a hole
dug in the foot of the bank. During periods
in the battle men who were shot actually
rolled down the bank into his dressing station.
Along from us a few hundred yards was the
headquarters of a regiment, and many times
during the sixteen days of battle, he and I
watched them burying their dead whenever
there was a lull. Thus the crosses, row on row,
grew into a good-sized cemetery. Just as he
describes, we often heard in the mornings the
larks singing high in the air, between the crash
of the shell and the reports of the guns in the
battery just beside us. I have a letter from
him in which he mentions having written the
poem to pass away the time between the arrival
of batches of wounded, and partly as an experi-
ment with several varieties of poetic metre. I
have a sketch of the scene, taken at the time,
including his dressing station; and during our
operations at Passchendaele last November, I
found time to make a sketch of the scene of the
crosses, row on row, from which he derived his
inspiration."
[82!
TTbe Brano of Mar
The last letter from the Front is dated June
ist, 1915. Upon that day he was posted to No.
3 General Hospital at Boulogne, and placed in
charge of medicine with the rank of Lieutenant-
Colonel as of date lyth April, 1915. Here he
remained until the day of his death on January
28th, 1918.
Ill
There are men who pass through such scenes
unmoved. If they have eyes, they do not see;
and ears, they do not hear. But John McCrae
was profoundly moved, and bore in his body
until the end the signs of his experience. Before
taking up his new duties he made a visit to the
hospitals in Paris to see if there was any new
thing that might be learned. A Nursing Sister
in the American Ambulance at Neuilly-sur-Seine
met him in the wards. Although she had known
him for fifteen years she did not recognize him, —
he appeared to her so old, so worn, his face lined
and ashen grey in colour, his expression dull, his
action slow and heavy.
To those who have never seen John McCrae
since he left Canada this change in his appear-
ance will seem incredible. He was of the Eck-
fords, and the Eckford men were "bonnie men,"
men with rosy cheeks. It was a year before I
met him again, and he had not yet recovered
[83]
TTbe Branfc of TKIlar
from the strain. Although he was upwards of
forty years of age when he left Canada he had
always retained an appearance of extreme youth-
fulness. He frequented the company of men
much younger than himself, and their youth
was imputed to him. His frame was tall and
well knit, and he showed alertness in every
move. He would arise from the chair with
every muscle in action, and walk forth as if he
were about to dance.
The first time I saw him he was doing an
autopsy at the Montreal General Hospital upon
the body of a child who had died under my care.
This must have been in the year 1900, and the
impression of boyishness remained until I met
him in France sixteen years later. His manner
of dress did much to produce this illusion. When
he was a student in London he employed a
tailor in Queen Victoria Street to make his
clothes; but with advancing years he neglected
to have new measurements taken or to alter
the pattern of his cloth. To obtain a new suit
was merely to write a letter, and he was always
economical of time. In those days jackets
were cut short, and he adhered to the fashion
with persistent care.
This appearance of youth at times caused
chagrin to those patients who had heard of his
fame as a physician, and called upon him for
[84]
t£be JBranO of Mar
the first time. In the Royal Victoria Hospital,
after he had been appointed physician, he en-
tered the wards and asked a nurse to fetch a
screen so that he might examine a patient in
privacy.
"Students are not allowed to use screens," the
young woman warned him with some asperity
in her voice.
If I were asked to state briefly the impression
which remains with me most firmly, I should
say it was one of continuous laughter. That is
not true, of course, for in repose his face was
heavy, his countenance more than ruddy; it
was even of a "choleric" cast, and at times
almost livid, especially when he was recovering
from one of those attacks of asthma from which
he habitually suffered. But his smile was his
own, and it was ineffable. It filled the eyes,
and illumined the face. It was the smile of
sheer fun, of pure gaiety, of sincere playfulness,
innocent of irony; with a tinge of sarcasm —
never. When he allowed himself to speak of
meanness in the profession, of dishonesty in
men, of evil in the world, his face became for-
midable. The glow of his countenance deep-
ened; his words were bitter, and the tones
harsh. But the indignation would not last.
The smile would come back. The effect was
spoiled. Everyone laughed with him.
[85]
ttbe JSrano of Mar
After his experience at the front the old gaiety
never returned. There were moments of irasci-
bility and moods of irritation. The desire for
solitude grew upon him, and with Bonfire and
Bonneau he would go apart for long afternoons
far afield by the roads and lanes about Boulogne.
The truth is: he felt that he and all had failed,
and that the torch was thrown from failing
hands. We have heard much of the suffering,
the misery, the cold, the wet, the gloom of those
first three winters; but no tongue has yet ut-
tered the inner misery of heart that was bred
of those three years of failure to break the
enemy's force.
He was not alone in this shadow of deep dark-
ness. Givenchy, Festubert, Neuve-Chapelle,
Ypres, Hooge, the Somme — to mention alone
the battles in which up to that time the Cana-
dian Corps had been engaged — all ended in
failure; and to a sensitive and foreboding mind
there were sounds and signs that it would be
given to this generation to hear the pillars and
fabric of Empire come crashing into the abysm
of chaos. He was not at the Somme in that
October of 1916, but those who returned up
north with the remnants of their division from
that place of slaughter will remember that,
having done all men could do, they felt like
deserters because they had not left their poor
[86]
Goitui to tbe t'dars
bodies dead upon the field along with friends
of a lifetime, comrades of a campaign. This
is no mere matter of surmise. The last day I
spent with him we talked of those things in his
tent, and I testify that it is true.
IV
John McCrae went to the war without illu-
sions. At first, like many others of his age, he
did not "think of enlisting," although "his
services are at the disposal of the Country if it
needs them."
In July, 1914, he was at work upon the second
edition of the Text-Book of Pathology by Adami
and McCrae, published by Messrs. Lea and
Febiger, and he had gone to Philadelphia to
read the proofs. He took them to Atlantic
City where he could "sit out on the sand, and
get sunshine and oxygen, and work all at once."
It was a laborious task, passing eighty to a
hundred pages of highly technical print each
day. Then there was the index, between six
and seven thousand items. " I have," so he
writes, "to change every item in the old index
and add others. I have a pile of pages, 826
in all. I look at the index, find the old page
among the 826, and then change the number.
This about 7000 times, so you may guess the
[87)
Going to tbe tUars
drudgery." On July i5th, the work was finished,
registered, and entrusted to the mail with a special
delivery stamp. The next day he wrote the
preface, "which really finished the job." In
very truth his scientific work was done.
It was now midsummer. The weather was
hot. He returned to Montreal. Practice was
dull. He was considering a voyage to Havre
and "a little trip with Dr. Adami" when he
arrived. On July 29th, he left Canada "for
better or worse. With the world so disturbed,"
he records, " I would gladly have stayed more
in touch with events, but I dare say one is just
as happy away from the hundred conflicting
reports." The ship was the Scotian of the Allan
Line, and he "shared a comfortable cabin with
a professor of Greek," who was at the University
in his own time.
For one inland born, he had a keen curiosity
about ships and the sea. There is a letter writ-
ten when he was thirteen years of age in which
he gives an account of a visit to a naval exhibi-
tion in London. He describes the models
which he saw, and gives an elaborate table of
names, dimensions, and tonnage. He could
identify the house flags and funnels of all the
principal liners; he could follow a ship through
all her vicissitudes and change of ownership.
When he found himself in a seaport town his
[88]
(Being to tbe Mars
first business was to visit the water front and
take knowledge of the vessels that lay in the
stream or by the docks. One voyage he made
to England was in a cargo ship. With his
passion for work he took on the duties of sur-
geon, and amazed the skipper with a revela-
tion of the new technique in operations which
he himself had been accustomed to perform by
the light of experience alone.
On the present and more luxurious voyage,
he remarks that the decks were roomy, the
ship seven years old, and capable of fifteen
knots an hour, the passengers pleasant, and
including a large number of French. All now
know only too well the nature of the business
which sent those ardent spirits flocking home to
their native land.
Forty-eight hours were lost in fog. The
weather was too thick for making the Straits,
and the Scoiian proceeded by Cape Race on her
way to Havre. Under date of August 5-6 the
first reference to the war appears: "All is excite-
ment; the ship runs without lights. Surely
the German kaiser has his head in the noose at
last: it will be a terrible war, and the finish of
one or the other. I am afraid my holiday trip
is knocked galley west; but we shall see." The
voyage continues. A "hundred miles from
Moville we turned back, and headed South for
<5ofn0 to tbe TKHars
Queenstown; thence to the Channel; put in at
Portland; a squadron of battleships; arrived
here this morning."
The problem presented itself to him as to
many another. The decision was made. To
go back to America was to go back from the
war. Here are the words: "It seems quite im-
possible to return, and I do not think I should
try. I would not feel quite comfortable over
it. I am cabling to Morrison at Ottawa, that
I am available either as combatant or medical
if they need me. I do not go to it very light-
heartedly, but I think it is up to me."
It was not so easy in those days to get to the
war, as he and many others were soon to discover.
There was in Canada at the time a small per-
manent force of 3000 men, a military college,
a Headquarters staff, and divisional staff for
the various districts into which the country
was divided. In addition there was a body of
militia with a strength of about 60,000 officers
and other ranks. Annual camps were formed
at which all arms of the service were represented,
and the whole was a very good imitation of
service conditions. Complete plans for mobiliza-
tion were in existence, by which a certain quota,
according to the establishment required, could
be detailed from each district. But upon the
outbreak of war the operations were taken
[90]
to tbe Wars
in hand by a Minister of Militia who assumed
in his own person all those duties usually as-
signed to the staff. He called to his assistance
certain business and political associates, with
the result that volunteers who followed military
methods did not get very far.
Accordingly we find it written in John Mc-
Crae's diary from London: "Nothing doing
here. I have yet no word from the Depart-
ment at Ottawa, but I try to be philosophical
until I hear from Morrison. If they want me
for the Canadian forces, I could use my old
Sam Browne belt, sword, and saddle if it is yet
extant. At times I wish I could go home with
a clear conscience."
He sailed for Canada in the Calgarian on
August 28th, having received a cablegram from
Colonel Morrison, that he had been provision-
ally appointed surgeon to the ist Brigade
Artillery. The night he arrived in Montreal I
dined with him at the University Club, and he
was aglow with enthusiasm over this new adven-
ture. He remained in Montreal for a few days,
and on September gth, joined the unit to which
he was attached as medical officer. Before leav-
ing Montreal he wrote to his sister Geills:
"Out on the awful old trail again! And with
very mixed feelings, but some determination.
I am off to Val-cartier to-night. I was really
[91]
Soutb Bfrica
afraid to go home, for I feared it would only
be harrowing for Mater, and I think she agrees.
We can hope for happier times. Everyone most
kind and helpful: my going does not seem to
surprise anyone. I know you will understand
it is hard to go home, and perhaps easier for
us all that I do not. I am in good hope of
coming back soon and safely: that, I am glad
to say, is in other and better hands than ours."
V
In the Autumn of 1914, after John McCrae
had gone over-seas, I was in a warehouse in
Montreal, in which one might find an old piece
of mahogany wood. His boxes were there in
storage, with his name plainly printed upon
them. The storeman, observing my interest,
remarked: "This Doctor McCrae cannot be do-
ing much business; he is always going to the
wars." The remark was profoundly significant
of the state of mind upon the subject of war
which prevailed at the time in Canada in more
intelligent persons. To this storeman war merely
meant that the less usefully employed members
of the community sent their boxes to him for
safe-keeping until their return. War was a
great holiday from work; and he had a vague
remembrance that some fifteen years before
[92]
soutb Hfrica
this customer had required of him a similar
service when the South African war broke out.
Either in esse or in posse John McCrae had
"always been going to the wars." At fourteen
years of age he joined the Guelph Highland
Cadets, and rose to the rank of ist Lieutenant.
As his size and strength increased he reverted
to the ranks and transferred to the Artillery.
In due time he rose from gunner to major. The
formal date of his "Gazette" is 17-3-02 as
they write it in the army; but he earned his
rank in South Africa.
War was the burden of his thought; war and
death the theme of his verse. At the age of
thirteen we find him at a gallery in Nottingham,
writing this note: "I saw the picture of the
artillery going over the trenches at Tel-el- Kebir.
It is a good picture; but there are four teams
on the guns. Perhaps an extra one had to be
put on." If his nomenclature was not correct,
the observation of the young artillerist was
exact. Such excesses were not permitted in his
father's battery in Guelph, Ontario. During
this same visit his curiosity led him into the
House of Lords1, and the sum of his written
observation is, "When someone is speaking no
one seems to listen at all."
His mother I never knew. Canada is a large
place. With his father I had four hours' talk
[931
Soutb Hf rica
from seven to eleven one June evening in Lon-
don in 1917. At the time I was on leave from
France to give the Cavendish Lecture, a task
which demanded some thought; and after two
years in the army it was a curious sensation-
watching one's mind at work again. The day
was Sunday. I had walked down to the river
to watch the flowing tide. To one brought up
in a country of streams and a moving sea the
curse of Flanders is her stagnant waters. It is
little wonder the exiles from the Judaean hill-
sides wept beside the slimy River.
The Thames by evening in June, memories
that reached from Tacitus to Wordsworth, the
embrasure that extends in front of the Egyptian
obelisk for a standing place, and some children
" swimming a dog" ; — that was the scene and cir-
cumstance of my first meeting with his father.
A man of middle age was standing by. He
wore the flashings of a Lieutenant-Colonel and
for badges the Artillery grenades. He seemed
a friendly man; and under the influence of the
moment, which he also surely felt, I spoke to
him.
"A fine river," — That was a safe remark.
" But I know a finer."
"Pharpar and Abana?" I put the stranger
to the test.
"No," he said. "The St. Lawrence is not
[94l
Soutb Hfrtca
of Damascus." He had answered to the sign,
and looked at my patches.
" I have a son in France, myself," he said.
"His name is McCrae."
"Not John McCrae?"
"John McCrae is my son."
The resemblance was instant, but this was
an older man than at first sight he seemed to be.
I asked him to dinner at Morley's, my place of
resort for a length of time beyond the memory
of all but the oldest servants. He had already
dined but he came and sat with me, and told
me marvellous things.
David McCrae had raised, and trained, a
field battery in Guelph, and brought it over-
seas. He was at the time upwards of seventy
years of age, and was considered on account of
years alone "unfit" to proceed to the front.
For many years he had commanded a field
battery in the Canadian militia, went on
manoeuvres with his "cannons," and fired round
shot. When the time came for using shells he
bored the fuse with a gimlet; and if the gimlet
were lost in the grass, the gun was out of action
until the useful tool could be found. This
"cannon ball" would travel over the country
according to the obstacles it encountered and,
"if it struck a man, it might break his leg."
In such a martial atmosphere the boy was
[951
Soutb Hfrica
brought up, and he was early nourished with
the history of the Highland regiments. Also
from his father he inherited, or had instilled
into him, a love of the out of doors, a knowledge
of trees, and plants, a sympathy with birds and
beasts, domestic and wild. When the South
African war broke out a contingent was dis-
patched from Canada, but it was so small that
few of those desiring to go could find a place.
This explains the genesis of the following letter:
I see by to-night's bulletin that there is to be no second
contingent. I feel sick with disappointment, and do not
believe that I have ever been so disappointed in my life,
for ever since this business began I am certain there have
not been fifteen minutes of my waking hours that it has
not been in my mind. It has to come sooner or later.
One campaign might cure me, but nothing else ever will,
unless it should be old age. I regret bitterly that I did
not enlist with the first, for I doubt if ever another chance
will offer like it. This is not said in ignorance of what the
hardships would be.
I am ashamed to say I am doing my work in a merely
mechanical way. If they are taking surgeons on the
other side, I have enough money to get myself across.
If I knew any one over there who could do anything, I
would certainly set about it. If I can get an appointment
in England by going, I will go. My position here I do not
count as an old boot in comparison.
In the end he accomplished the desire of his
heart, and sailed on the Laurentian. Concern-
ing the voyage one transcription will be enough:
[96]
Soutb Hfrica
On orderly duty. I have just been out taking the
picket at 11.30 P.M. In the stables the long row of heads
in the half-darkness, the creaking of the ship, the shiver-
ing of the hull from the vibration of the engines, the sing
of a sentry on the spar deck to some passer-by. Then to
the forward deck: the sky half covered with scudding
clouds, the stars bright in the intervals, the wind whistling
a regular blow that tries one's ears, the constant swish as
she settles down to a ~ea; and, looking aft, the funnel with
a wreath of smoke trailing away off into the darkness on
the starboard quarter; the patch of white on the funnel
discernible dimly ; the masts drawing maps across the sky as
one looks up; the clank of shovels coming up through the
ventilators, — if you have ever been there, you know it all.
There was a voluntary service at six; two ships' lanterns
and the men all around, the background of sky and sea,
and the strains of "Nearer my God to Thee" rising up in
splendid chorus. It was a very effective scene, and it
occurred to me that this was "the rooibaatjees singing on
the road," as the song says.
The next entry is from South Africa:
GREEN POINT CAMP, CAPETOWN,
February 2Sth, 1900.
You have no idea of the work. Section commanders
live with their sections, which is the right way. It makes
long hours. I never knew a softer bed than the ground is
these nights. I really enjoy every minute though there
is anxiety. We have lost all our spare horses. We have
only enough to turn out the battery and no more.
After a description of a number of the regiments
camped near by them, he speaks of the Indian
troops, and then says:
7 [97]
Soutb Hfrica
We met the High Priest of it all, and I had a five minutes'
chat with him — Kipling I mean. He visited the camp.
He looks like his pictures, and is very affable. He told
me I spoke like a Winnipeger. He said we ought to "fine
the men for drinking unboiled water. Don't give them
C.B.; it is no good. Fine them, or drive common sense
into them. All Canadians have common sense."
The next letter is from the Lines of Communi-
cation:
VAN WYKS VLEI,
March 22nd, 1900.
Here I am with my first command. Each place we
strike is a little more God-forsaken than the last, and this
place wins up to date. We marched last week from
Victoria west to Carnovan, about 80 miles. We stayed
there over Sunday, and on Monday my section was de-
tached with mounted infantry, I being the only artillery
officer. We marched 54 miles in 37 hours with stops;
not very fast, but quite satisfactory. My horse is doing
well, although very thin. Night before last on the road
we halted, and I dismounted for a minute. When we
started I pulled on the lines but no answer. The poor old
chap was fast asleep in his tracks, and in about thirty
seconds too.
This continuous marching is really hard work. The
men at every halt just drop down in the road and sleep
until they are kicked up again in ten minutes. They do it
willingly too. I am commanding officer, adjutant, officer
on duty, and all the rest since we left the main body.
Talk about the Army in Flanders ! You should hear this
battalion. I always knew soldiers could swear, but you
ought to hear these fellows. I am told the first contingent
has got a name among the regulars.
[98]
Soutb Hfrica
Three weeks later he writes:
April roth, 1900.
We certainly shall have done a good march when we get
to the railroad, 478 miles through a country desolate of
forage carrying our own transport and one-half rations
of forage, and frequently the men's rations. For two
days running we had nine hours in the saddle without
food. My throat was sore and swollen for a day or two,
and I felt so sorry for myself at times that I laughed to
think how I must have looked: sitting on a stone, drinking
a pan of tea without trimmings, that had got cold, and
eating a shapeless lump of brown bread; my one "hank"
drawn around my neck, serving as hank and bandage
alternately. It is miserable to have to climb up on one's
horse with a head like a buzz saw, the sun very hot, and
"gargle" in one's water bottle. It is surprising how I can
go without water if I have to on a short stretch, that is,
of ten hours in the sun. It is after nightfall that the
thirst really seems to attack one and actually gnaws.
One thinks of all the cool drinks and good things one would
like to eat. Please understand that this is not for one
instant in any spirit of growling.
The detail was now established at Victoria
Road. Three entries appear:
April 23rd, 1900.
We are still here in camp hoping for orders to move,
but they have not yet come. Most of the other troops
have gone. A squadron of the M.C.R., my messmates
for the past five weeks, have gone and I am left an orphan.
I was very sorry to see them go. They, in the kindness
of their hearts, say, if I get stranded, they will do the best
they can to get a troop for me in the squadron or some
[99]
Soutb Sfrtca
such employment. Impracticable, but kind. I have no
wish to cease to be a gunner.
VICTORIA ROAD, May aoth, 1900.
The horses are doing as well as one can expect, for the
rations are insufficient. Our men have been helping to
get ready a rest camp near us, and have been filling
mattresses with hay. Every fatigue party comes back
from the hospital, their jackets bulging with hay for the
horses. Two bales were condemned as too musty to put
into the mattresses, and we were allowed to take them
for the horses. They didn't leave a spear of it. Isn't it
pitiful? Everything that the heart of man and woman
can devise has been sent out for the "Tommies," but no
one thinks of the poor horses. They get the worst of it
all the time. Even now we blush to see the handful of
hay that each horse gets at a feed.
The Boer War is so far off in time and space
that a few further detached references must
suffice:
When riding into Bloemfontein met Lord 's funeral
at the cemetery gates, — band, firing party, Union Jack,
and about three companies. A few yards farther on a
"Tommy" covered only by his blanket, escorted by thir-
teen men all told, the last class distinction that the world
can ever make.
We had our baptism of fire yesterday. They opened
on us from the left flank. Their first shell was about 150
yards in front — direction good. The next was 100 yards
over; and we thought we were bracketed. Some shrapnel
burst over us and scattered on all sides. I felt as if a hail
storm was coming down, and wanted to turn my back,
but it was over in an instant. The whistle of a shell is
[ ioo ]
Soutb Hf rfca
unpleasant. You hear it begin to scream; the scream
grows louder and louder; it seems to be coming exactly
your way; then you realize that it has gone over. Most
of them fell between our guns and wagons. Our position
was quite in the open.
With Ian Hamilton's column near BalmoraJ.
The day was cold, much like a December day at home,
and by my kit going astray I had only light clothing.
The rain was fearfully chilly. When we got in about dark
we found that the transport could not come up, and it
had all our blankets and coats. I had my cape and a
rubber sheet for the saddle, both soaking wet. Being on
duty I held to camp, the others making for the house
nearby where they got poor quarters. I bunked out,
supperless like every one else, under an ammunition wagon.
It rained most of the night and was bitterly cold. I slept
at intervals, keeping the same position all night, both
legs in a puddle and my feet being rained on: it was a
long night from dark at 5.30 to morning. Ten men in
the infantry regiment next us died during the night from
exposure. Altogether I never knew such a night, and with
decent luck hope never to see such another.
As we passed we saw the Connaughts looking at the
graves of their comrades of twenty years ago. The Bat-
tery rode at attention and gave "Eyes right": the first
time for twenty years that the roll of a British gun has
broken in on the silence of those unnamed graves.
We were inspected by Lord Roberts. The battery-
turned out very smart, and Lord Roberts complimented
the Major on its appearance. He then inspected, and
afterwards asked to have the officers called out. We were
presented to him in turn; he spoke a few words to each
[101]
Soutb Hfrica
of us, asking what our corps and service had been. He
seemed surprised that we were all Field Artillery men,
but probably the composition of the other Canadian
units had to do with this. He asked a good many ques-
tions about the horses, the men, and particularly about
the spirits of the men. Altogether he showed a very kind
interest in the battery.
At nine took the Presbyterian parade to the lines, the
first Presbyterian service since we left Canada. We had
the right, the Gordons and the Royal Scots next. The
music was excellent, led by the brass band of the Royal
Scots, which played extremely well. All the singing was
from the psalms and paraphrases: "Old Hundred" and
"Duke Street" among them. It was very pleasant to
hear the old reliables once more. "McCrae's Covenant-
ers" some of the officers called us; but I should not like
to set our conduct up against the standard of those austere
men.
At Lyndenburg:
The Boers opened on us at about 10,000 yards, the fire
being accurate from the first. They shelled us till dark,
over three hours. The guns on our left fired for a long
time on Buller's camp, the ones on our right on us. We
could see the smoke and flash; then there was a soul-con-
suming interval of 20 to 30 seconds when we would hear
the report, and about five seconds later the burst. Many
in succession burst over and all around us. I picked up
pieces which fell within a few feet. It was a trying after-
noon, and we stood around wondering. We moved the
horses back, and took cover under the wagons. We were
thankful when the sun went down, especially as for the
last hour of daylight they turned all their guns on us. The
casualties were few.
I 102]
Soutb Hfrica
The next morning a heavy mist prevented the enemy
from firing. The division marched out at 7.30 A.M. The
attack was made in three columns: cavalry brigade on the
left; Buller's troops in the centre, Hamilton's on the right.
The Canadian artillery were with Hamilton's division.
The approach to the hill was exposed everywhere except
where some cover was afforded by ridges. We marched
out as support to the Gordons, the cavalry and the Royal
Horse Artillery going out to our right as a flank guard.
While we were waiting three loo-pound shells struck the
top of the ridge in succession about 50 to 75 yards in front
of the battery line. We began to feel rather shaky.
On looking over the field at this time one could not tell
that anything was occurring except for the long range guns
replying to the fire from the hill. The enemy had opened
fire as soon as our advance was pushed out. With a glass
one could distinguish the infantry pushing up in lines,
five or six in succession, the men being some yards apart.
Then came a long pause, broken only by the big guns.
At last we got the order to advance just as the big guns of
the enemy stopped their fire. We advanced about four
miles mostly up the slope, which is in all about 1500 feet
high, over a great deal of rough ground and over a number
of spruits. The horses were put to their utmost to draw
the guns up the hills. As we advanced we could see artil-
lery crawling in from both flanks, all converging to the
main hill, while far away the infantry and cavalry were
beginning to crown the heights near us. Then the field
guns and the pompoms began to play. As the field guns
came up to a broad plateau section after section came into
action, and we fired shrapnel and lyddite on the crests
ahead and to the left. Every now and then a rattle of
Mausers and Metfords would tell us that the infantry-
were at their work, but practically the battle was over.
From being an infantry attack as expected it was the
[103!
Cbilfcren an& animals
gunners' day, and the artillery seemed to do excellent
work.
General Buller pushed up the hill as the guns were at
work, and afterwards General Hamilton; the one as grim
as his pictures, the other looking very happy. The wind
blew through us cold like ice as we stood on the hill; as
the artillery ceased fire the mist dropped over us chilling
us to the bone. We were afraid we should have to spend
the night on the hill, but a welcome order came sending us
back to camp, a distance of five miles by the roads, as
Buller would hold the hill, and our force must march south.
Our front was over eight miles wide and the objective
1500 feet higher than our camp, and over six miles away.
If the enemy had had the nerve to stand, the position
could scarcely have been taken; certainly not without the
loss of thousands.
For this campaign he received the Queen's
Medal with three clasps.
VI
Through all his life, and through all his let-
ters, dogs and children followed him as shadows
follow men. To walk in the streets with him
was a slow procession. Every dog and every
child one met must be spoken to, and each made
answer. Throughout the later letters the names
Bonfire and Bonneau occur continually. Bon-
fire was his horse, and Bonneau his dog.
This horse, an Irish hunter, was given to him
by John L. Todd. It was wounded twice, and
now lives in honourable retirement at a secret
[ 104]
John McCrae and Bonnean
CIMl&rcn anfc Bnimals
place which need not be disclosed to the army
authorities. One officer who had visited the hos-
pital writes of seeing him going about the wards
with Bonneau and a small French child following
after. In memory of his love for animals and
children the following extracts will serve:
You ask if the wee fellow has a name — Mike, mostly,
as a term of affection. He has found a cupboard in one
ward in which oakum is stored, and he loves to steal in
there and "pick oakum," amusing himself as long as is
permitted. I hold that this indicates convict ancestry
to which Mike makes no defence.
The family is very well, even one-eyed Mike is able to
go round the yard in his dressing-gown, so to speak. He
is a queer pathetic little beast and Madame has him "hos-
pitalized" on the bottom shelf of the sideboard in the
living room, whence he comes down (six inches to the
floor) to greet me, and then gravely hirples back, the hind
legs looking very pathetic as he hops in. But he is full of
spirit and is doing very well.
As to the animals — "those poor voiceless creatures," say
you. I wish you could hear them. Bonneau and Mike
are a perfect Dignity and Impudence; and both vocal to
a wonderful degree. Mike's face is exactly like the terrier
in the old picture, and he sits up and gives his paw just
like Bonneau, and I never saw him have any instruction;
and as for voice, I wish you could hear Bonfire's "whicker "
to me in the stable or elsewhere. It is all but talk. There
is one ward door that he tries whenever we pass. He
turns his head around, looks into the door, and waits.
The Sisters in the ward have changed frequently, but all
[105]
Cbil&ren an£> Bnfmals
alike "fall for it," as they say, and produce a biscuit or
some such dainty which Bonfire takes with much gravity
and gentleness. Should I chide him for being too eager
and give him my hand saying, "Gentle now," he mumbles
with his lips, and licks with his tongue like a dog to show
how gentle he can be when he tries. Truly a great boy is
that same. On this subject I am like a doting grandmother,
but forgive it.
I have a very deep affection for Bonfire, for we have
been through so much together, and some of it bad enough.
All the hard spots to which one's memory turns the old
fellow has shared, though he says so little about it.
This love of animals was no vagrant mood.
Fifteen years before in South Africa he wrote in
his diary under date of September i ith, 1900:
I wish I could introduce you to the dogs of the force.
The genus dog here is essentially sociable, and it is a great
pleasure to have them about. I think I have a personal
acquaintance with them all. There are our pups — Dolly,
whom I always know by her one black and one white eye-
brow; Grit and Tory, two smaller gentlemen, about the
size of a pound of butter — and fighters; one small white
gentleman who rides on a horse, on the blanket; Kitty,
the monkey, also rides the off lead of the forge wagon.
There is a black almond-eyed person belonging to the
Royal Scots, who begins to twist as far as I can see her,
and comes up in long curves, extremely genially. A small
shaggy chap who belongs to the Royal Irish stands upon
his hind legs and spars with his front feet — and lots of
others — every one of them "a soldier and a man." The
Royal Scots have a monkey, Jenny, who goes around
always trailing a sack in her hand, into which she creeps
if necessary to obtain shelter.
[106]
Cbtltn-en anfc animals
The other day old Jack, my horse, was bitten by his
next neighbor; he turned slowly, eyed his opponent, shifted
his rope so that he had a little more room, turned very
deliberately, and planted both heels in the offender's
stomach. He will not be run upon.
From a time still further back comes a note
in a like strain. In 1898 he was house physician
in a children's hospital at Mt. Airy, Maryland,
when he wrote:
A kitten has taken up with a poor cripple dying of muscu-
lar atrophy who cannot move. It stays with him all the
time, and sleeps most of the day in his straw hat. To-
night I saw the kitten curled up under the bed-clothes.
It seems as if it were a gift of Providence that the little
creature should attach itself to the child who needs it most.
Of another child:
The day she died she called for me all day, deposed the
nurse who was sitting by her, and asked me to remain
with her. She had to be held up on account of lack of
breath; and I had a tiring hour of it before she died, but
it seemed to make her happier and was no great sacrifice.
Her friends arrived twenty minutes too late. It seems
hard that Death will not wait the poor fraction of an hour,
but so it is.
And here are some letters to his nephews and
nieces which reveal his attitude both to children
and to animals.
[107]
Cbtlfcrcn anfc Hnimals
From Bonfire to Sergt.-Major Jack Kilgour
August 6th, 1916.
Did you ever have a sore hock? I have one now, and
Cruickshank puts bandages on my leg. He also washed
my white socks for me. I am glad you got my picture.
My master is well, and the girls tell me I am looking well,
too. The ones I like best give me biscuits and sugar, and
sometimes flowers. One of them did not want to give
me some mignonette the other day because she said it
would make me sick. It did not make me sick. Another
one sends me bags of carrots. If you don't know how to
eat carrots, tops and all, you had better learn, but I sup-
pose you are just a boy, and do not know how good oats
are.
BONFIRE His fly Mark.
From Bonfire to Sergt.-Major Jack Kilgour
October 1st, 1916.
DEAR JACK,
Did you ever eat blackberries? My master and I pick
them every day on the hedges. I like twenty at a time.
My leg is better but I have a lump on my tummy. I went
to see my doctor to-day, and he says it is nothing at all.
I have another horse staying in my stable now; he is
black, and about half my size. He does not keep me
awake at night. Yours truly,
BONFIRE His O Mark.
From Bonfire to Margaret Kilgour, Civilian
November sth, 1916.
DEAR MARGARET:
This is Guy Fox Day! I spell it that way because fox-
hunting was my occupation a long time ago before the
[108]
CbilDrcn an& Bnimals
war. How are Sergt.-Major Jack and Corporal David?
Ask Jack if he ever bites through his rope at night, and
gets into the oat-box. And as for the Corporal, "I bet
you" I can jump as far as he can. I hear David has lost
his red coat. I still have my grey one, but it is pretty
dirty now, for I have not had a new one for a long time.
I got my hair cut a few weeks ago and am to have new
boots next week. Bonneau and Follette send their love.
Yours truly, -.
BONFIRE His «)) Mark.
IN FLANDERS, April 3rd, 1915.
MY DEAR MARGARET:
There is a little girl in this house whose name is Clothilde.
She is ten years old, and calls me "Monsieur le Major."
How would you like it if twenty or thirty soldiers came
along and lived in your house and put their horses in the
shed or the stable? There are not many little boys and
girls left in this part of the country, but occasionally one
meets them on the roads with baskets of eggs or loaves of
bread. Most of them have no homes, for their houses
have been burnt by the Germans; but they do not cry
over it. It is dangerous for them, for a shell might hit
them at any time — and it would not be an eggshell, either.
Bonfire is very well. Mother sent him some packets of
sugar, and if ever you saw a big horse excited about a
little parcel, it was Bonfire. He can have only two lumps
in any one day, for there is not much of it. Twice he has
had gingerbread and he is very fond of that. It is rather
funny for a soldier-horse, is it not? But soldier horses
have a pretty hard time of it, sometimes, so we do not
grudge them a little luxury. Bonfire's friends are King,
and Prince, and Saxonia, — all nice big boys. If they go
away and leave him, he whinnies till he catches sight of
them again, and then he is quite happy. How is the I5th
[ 109]
Cbtlfcren an& Hnimals
Street Brigade getting on? Tell Mother I recommend
Jack for promotion to corporal if he has been good. David
will have to be a gunner for awhile yet, for everybody
cannot be promoted. Give my love to Katharine, and
Jack, and David.
Your affectionate uncle Jack.
Bonfire, and Bonneau, and little Mike, are all well.
Mike is about four months old and has lost an eye and had
a leg broken, but he is a very good little boy all the same.
He is very fond of Bonfire, and Bonneau, and me. I go
to the stable and whistle, and Bonneau and Mike come
running out squealing with joy, to go for a little walk
with me. When Mike conies to steps, he puts his feet
on the lowest steps and turns and looks at me and I lift
him up. He is a dear ugly little chap.
The dogs are often to be seen sprawled on the floor of
my tent. I like to have them there for they are very
home-like beasts. They never seem French to me. Bon-
neau can "dormer la patte" in good style nowadays, and
he sometimes curls up inside the rabbit hutch, and the
rabbits seem to like him.
I wish you could see the hundreds of rabbits there are
here on the sand-dunes; there are also many larks and
jackdaws. (These are different from your brother Jack
although they have black faces.) There are herons, cur-
lews, and even ducks; and the other day I saw four young
weasels in a heap, jumping over each other from side to
side as they ran.
Sir Bertrand Dawson has a lovely little spaniel, Sue, quite
black, who goes around with him. I am quite a favourite,
and one day Sir Bertrand said to me, "She has brought
you a present," and here she was waiting earnestly for me
to remove from her mouth a small stone. It is usually a
simple gift, I notice, and does not embarrass by its value.
Cbitoren an& Hnfmals
Bonfire is very sleek and trim, and we journey much.
If I sit down in his reach I wish you could see how deftly
he can pick off my cap and swing it high out of my reach.
He also carries my crop; his games are simple, but he does
not readily tire of them.
I lost poor old Windy. He was the regimental dog of
the ist Batt. Lincolns, and came to this vale of Avalon
to be healed of his second wound. He spent a year at
Gallipoli and was "over the top" twice with his battalion.
He came to us with his papers like any other patient, and
did very well for a while, but took suddenly worse. He
had all that care and love could suggest and enough mor-
phine to keep the pain down; but he was very pathetic,
and I had resolved that it would be true friendship to
help him over when he "went west." He is buried in our
woods like any other good soldier, and yesterday I noticed
that some one has laid a little wreath of ivy on his grave.
He was an old dog evidently, but we are all sore-hearted
at losing him. His kit is kept should his master return,
— only his collar with his honourable marks, for his ward-
robe was of necessity simple. So another sad chapter ends.
September 29th, 1913.
Bonneau gravely accompanies me round the wards and
waits for me, sitting up in a most dignified way. He comes
into my tent and sits there very gravely while I dress.
Two days ago a Sister brought out some biscuits for Bon-
fire, and not understanding the rules of the game, which
are bit and bit about for Bonfire and Bonneau, gave all
to Bonfire, so that poor Bonneau sat below and caught the
crumbs that fell. I can see that Bonfire makes a great
hit with the Sisters because he licks their hands just like
a dog, and no crumb is too small to be gone after.
April, 1917.
I was glad to get back; Bonfire and Bonneau greeted me
[in]
Ube ©U> Xanfc
very enthusiastically. I had a long long story from the
dog, delivered with uplifted muzzle. They tell me he sat
gravely on the roads a great deal during my absence, and
all his accustomed haunts missed him. He is back on
rounds faithfully.
VII
If one were engageti upon a formal work of
biography rather than a mere essay in character,
it would be just and proper to investigate the
family sources from which the individual mem-
ber is sprung; but I must content myself within
the bounds which I have set, and leave the larger
task to a more laborious hand. The essence of
history lies in the character of the persons con-
cerned, rather than in the feats which they
performed. A man neither lives to himself nor
in himself. He is indissolubly bound up with
his stock, and can only explain himself in terms
common to his family; but in doing so he tran-
scends the limits of history, and passes into the
realms of philosophy and religion.
The life of a Canadian is bound up with the
history of his parish, of his town, of his province,
of his country, and even with the history of
that country in which his family had its birth.
The life of John McCrae takes us back to Scot-
land. In Canada there has been much writing
of history of a certain kind. 1 1 deals with events
rather than with the subtler matter of people,
[112]
Sn& tbe Hew
and has been written mainly for purposes of
advertising. If the French made a heroic stand
against the Iroquois, the sacred spot is now fur-
nished with an hotel from which a free 'bus
runs to a station upon the line of an excellent
railway. Maisonneuve fought his great fight
upon a place from which a vicious mayor cut
the trees which once sheltered the soldier, to
make way for a fountain upon which would be
raised "historical" figures in concrete stone.
The history of Canada is the history of its
people, not of its railways, hotels, and factories.
The material exists in written or printed form
in the little archives of many a family. Such
a chronicle is in possession of the Eckford family
which now by descent on the female side bears
the honoured names of Gow, and McCrae.
John Eckford had two daughters, in the words
of old Jamie Young, "the most lovingest girls
he ever knew." The younger, Janet Simpson,
was taken to wife by David McCrae, 2ist
January, 1870, and on November 3oth, 1872,
became the mother of John. To her he wrote
all these letters, glowing with filial devotion,
which I am privileged to use so freely.
There is in the family a tradition of the single
name for the males. It was therefore proper
that the elder born should be called Thomas,
more learned in medicine, more assiduous in
s [113]
Ube ©U> Xanfc
practice, and more weighty in intellect even
than the otherwise more highly gifted John.
He too is professor of medicine, and co-author
of a profound work with his master and relative
by marriage — Sir William Osier. Also, he wore
the King's uniform and served in the present
war.
This John Eckford, accompanied by his two
daughters, the mother being dead, his sister,
her husband who bore the name of Chisholm,
and their numerous children emigrated to
Canada, May 28th, 1851, in the ship Clutha
which sailed from the Broomielaw bound for
Quebec. The consort, Wolfcille, upon which
they had originally taken passage, arrived in
Quebec before them, and lay in the stream,
flying the yellow flag of quarantine. Cholera
had broken out. " Be still, and see the salvation
of the Lord," were the words of the family
morning prayers.
In the Clulla also came as passengers James
and Mary Gow; their cousin, one Duncan Mon-
ach; Mrs. Manning, who was a sister of Thomas
Carlyle; and her two daughters. On the voy-
age they escaped the usual hardships, and
their fare appears to us in these days to have
been abundant. The weekly ration was three
quarts of water, two ounces of tea, one half
pound of sugar, one half pound molasses, three
tbe flew
pounds of bread, one pound of flour, two pounds
of rice, and five pounds of oatmeal.
The reason for this migration is succinctly
stated by the head of the house. " I know how
hard it was for my mother to start me, and I
wanted land for my children and a better oppor-
tunity for them." And yet his parents in their
time appear to have "started" him pretty well,
although his father was obliged to confess, " I
never had more of this world's goods than to
bring up my family by the labour of my hands
honestly, but it is more than my Master owned,
who had not where to lay His head." They
allowed him that very best means of education,
a calmness of the senses, as he herded sheep
on the Cheviot Hills. They put him to the
University in Edinburgh, as a preparation for
the ministry, and supplied him with ample oat-
meal, peasemeal bannocks, and milk. In that
great school of divinity he learned the Hebrew,
Greek, and Latin; he studied Italian, and French
under Surenne, him of blessed memory even
unto this day.
John Eckford in 1839 married Margaret
Christie, and he went far afield for a wife, namely
from Newbiggin in Forfar, where for fourteen
years he had his one and only charge, to Strath-
miglo in Fife. The marriage was fruitful and
a happy one, although there is a hint in the
[115!
record of some religious difference upon which
one would like to dwell if the subject were not
too esoteric for this generation. The minister
showed a certain indulgence, and so long as his
wife lived he never employed the paraphrases
in the solemn worship of the sanctuary. She
was a woman of provident mind. Shortly af-
ter they were married he made the discovery
that she had prepared the grave clothes for him
as well as for herself. Too soon, after only eight
years, it was her fate to be shrouded in them.
After her death — probably because of her
death — John Eckford emigrated to Canada.
To one who knows the early days in Canada
there is nothing new in the story of this family.
They landed in Montreal July nth, 1851, forty-
four days out from Glasgow. They proceeded
by steamer to Hamilton, the fare being about
a dollar for each passenger. The next stage was
to Guelph; then on to Durham, and finally
they came to the end of their journeying near
Walkerton in Bruce County in the primeval
forest, from which they cut out a home for
themselves and for their children.
It was "the winter of the deep snow." One
transcription from the record will disclose the
scene:
At length a grave was dug on a knoll in the bush at the
foot of a great maple with a young snow-laden hemlock
[1x6]
Bn& tbc flew
at the side. The father and the eldest brother carried the
box along the shovelled path. The mother close behind
was followed by the two families. The snow was falling
heavily. At the grave John Eckford read a psalm, and
prayed, "that they might be enabled to believe, the mercy
of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting unto them
that fear Him."
John McCrae himself was an indefatigable
church-goer. There is a note in childish char-
acters written from Edinburgh in his thirteenth
year, "On Sabbath went to service four times."
There the statement stands in all its austerity.
A letter from a chaplain is extant in which a
certain mild wonder is expressed at the regular-
ity in attendance of an officer of field rank. To
his sure taste in poetry the hymns were a sore
trial. "Only forty minutes are allowed for
the service," he said, "and it is sad to see them
' snappit up' by these poor bald four-line things."
On Easter Sunday, 1915, he wrote: "We had
a church parade this morning, the first since we
arrived in France. Truly, if the dead rise not,
we are of all men the most miserable." On the
funeral service of a friend he remarks: "'Foras-
much as it hath pleased Almighty God/ — what
a summary of the whole thing that is!" On
many occasions he officiated in the absence
of the chaplains who in those days would have
as many as six services a day. In civil life in
[117]
Ube Civil L>cars
Montreal he went to church in the evening, and
sat under the Reverend James Barclay of St.
Pauls, now designated by some at least as St.
Andrews.
VIII
It will be observed in this long relation of
John McCrae that little mention has yet been
made of what after all was his main concern
in life. For twenty years he studied and prac-
tised medicine. To the end he was an assiduous
student and a very profound practitioner. He
was a student, not of medicine alone, but of all
subjects ancillary to the science, and to the task
he came with a mind braced by a sound and
generous education. Any education of real
value a man must have received before he has
attained to the age of seven years. Indeed he
may be left impervious to its influence at seven
weeks. John McCrae's education began well.
It began in the time of his two grandfathers at
least, was continued by his father and mother
before he came upon this world's scene, and by
them was left deep founded for him to build
upon.
Noble natures have a repugnance from work.
Manual labour is servitude. A day of idleness
is a holy day. For those whose means do not
permit to live in idleness the school is the only
ttbe Civil U>ears
refuge; but they must prove their quality.
This is the goal which drives many Scotch boys
to the University, scorning delights and willing
to live long, mind-laborious days.
John McCrae's father felt bound " to give the
boy a chance," but the boy must pass the test.
The test in such cases is the Shorter Catechism,
that compendium of all intellectual argument.
How the faithful aspirant for the school acquires
this body of written knowledge at a time when
he has not yet learned the use of letters is a
secret not to be lightly disclosed. It may
indeed be that already his education is com-
plete. Upon the little book is always printed
the table of multiples, so that the obvious truth
which is comprised in the statement, "two by
two makes four," is imputed to the contents
which are within the cover. In studying the
table the catechism is learned surreptitiously,
and therefore without self-consciousness.
So, in this well ordered family with its atmos-
phere of obedience, we may see the boy, like a
youthful Socrates going about with a copy of
the book in his hand, enquiring of those, who
could already read, not alone what were the
answers to the questions but the very questions
themselves to which an answer was demanded.
This learning, however, was only a minor
part of life, since upon a farm life is very wide
[119]
ZTbe Civil
and very deep. In due time the school was
accomplished, and there was a master in the
school — let his name be recorded — William
Tytler, who had a feeling for English writing
and a desire to extend that feeling to others.
In due time also the question of a University
arose. There was a man in Canada named
Dawson — Sir William Dawson. I have written
of him in another place. He had the idea that
a university had something to do with the forma-
tion of character, and that in the formation of
character religion had a part. He was principal
of McGill. I am not saying that all boys who
entered that University were religious boys
when they went in, or even religious men when
they came out; but religious fathers had a general
desire to place their boys under Sir William
Dawson's care.
Those were the days of a queer, and now for-
gotten, controversy over what was called "Sci-
ence and Religion." Of that also I have written
in another place. It was left to Sir William
Dawson to deliver the last word in defence of a
cause that was already lost. His book came
under the eye of David McCrae, as most books
of the time did, and he was troubled in his heart.
His boys were at the University of Toronto. It
was too late; but he eased his mind by writing
a letter. To this letter John replies under date
[ 120]
Ube Civil H>ears
2oth December, 1890: "You say that after
reading Dawson's book you almost regretted
that we had not gone to McGill. That, I con-
sider, would have been rather a calamity, about
as much so as going to Queen's." We are not
always wiser than our fathers were, and in the
end he came to McGill after all.
For good or ill, John McCrae entered the
University of Toronto in 1888, with a scholar-
ship for "general proficiency." He joined the
Faculty of Arts, took the honours course in
natural sciences, and graduated from the depart-
ment of biology in 1894, his course having been
interrupted by two severe illnesses. From
natural science, it was an easy step to medicine,
in which he was encouraged by Ramsay Wright,
A. B. Macallum, A. McPhedran, and I. H.
Cameron. In 1898 he graduated again, with a
gold medal, and a scholarship in physiology and
pathology. The previous summer he had spent
at the Garrett Children's Hospital in Mt. Airy,
Maryland.
Upon graduating he entered the Toronto
General Hospital as resident house officer; in
1899 he occupied a similar post at Johns Hop-
kins. Then he came to McGill University as
fellow in pathology and pathologist to the Mont-
real General Hospital. I n time he was appointed
physician to the Alexandra Hospital for infec-
[121]
ZTbe Civil
tious diseases; later assistant physician to the
Royal Victoria Hospital, and lecturer in medi-
cine in the University. By examination he
became a member of the Royal College of Physi-
cians, London. In 1914 he was ejected a mem-
ber of the Association of American Physicians.
These are distinctions won by few in the pro-
fession.
In spite, or rather by reason, of his various
attainments John McCrae never developed, or
degenerated, into the type of the pure scientist.
For the laboratory he had neither the mind
nor the hands. He never peered at partial
truths so closely as to mistake them for the
whole truth; therefore, he was unfitted for that
purely scientific career which was developed to
so high a pitch of perfection in that nation which
is now no longer mentioned amongst men. He
wrote much, and often, upon medical problems.
The papers bearing his name amount to thirty-
three items in the catalogues. They testify to
his industry rather than to invention and dis-
covery, but they have made his name known in
every text-book of medicine.
Apart from his verse, and letters, and diaries,
and contributions to journals and books of
medicine, with an occasional address to students
or to societies, John McCrae left few writings,
and in these there is nothing remarkable by
[122]
Civil
reason of thought or expression. He could not
write prose. Fine as was his ear for verse he
could not produce that finer rhythm of prose,
which comes from the fall of proper words in
proper sequence. He never learned that if a
writer of prose takes care of the sound the sense
will take care of itself. He did not scrutinize
words to discover their first and fresh meaning.
He wrote in phrases, and used words at second-
hand as the journalists do. Bullets "rained";
guns "swept"; shells "hailed"; events "trans-
pired," and yet his appreciation of style in
others was perfect, and he was an insatiable
reader of the best books. His letter are strewn
with names of authors whose worth time has
proved. To specify them would merely be to
write the catalogue of a good library.
The thirteen years with which this century
opened were the period in which John McCrae
established himself in civil life in Montreal and
in the profession of medicine. Of this period
he has left a chronicle which is at once too long
and too short.
All lives are equally interesting if only we
are in possession of all the facts. Places like
Oxford and Cambridge have been made inter-
esting because the people who live in them are
in the habit of writing, and always write about
each other. Family letters have little interest
[123]
tTbe Civil l£>ears
even for the family itself, if they consist merely
of a recital of the trivial events of the day.
They are prized for the unusual and for the
sentiment they contain. Diaries also are dull
unless they deal with selected incidents; and se-
lection is the essence of every art. Few events
have any interest in themselves, but any event
can be made interesting by the pictorial or
literary art.
When he writes to his mother, that, as he was
coming out of the college, an Irish setter pressed
a cold nose against his hand, that is interesting
because it is unusual. If he tells us that a pro-
fessor took him by the arm, there is no interest
in that to her or to any one else. For that
reason the ample letters and diaries which cover
these years need not detain us long. There is
in them little selection, little art — too much
professor and too little dog.
It is, of course, the business of the essayist
to select; but in the present case there is little
to choose. He tells of invitations to dinner,
accepted, evaded, or refused; but he does not
always tell who were there, what he thought of
them, or what they had to eat. Dinner at the
Adami's, — supper at Ruttan's, — a night with
Owen, — tea at the Reford's, — theatre with the
Hickson's, — a reception at the Angus's, — or a
dance at the Allan's, — these events would all
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Civil U>ears
be quite meaningless without an exposition of
the social life of Montreal, which is too large a
matter to undertake, alluring as the task would
be. Even then, one would be giving one's own
impressions and not his.
Wherever he lived he was a social figure.
When he sat at table the dinner was never dull.
The entertainment he offered was not missed
by the dullest intelligence. His contribution
was merely "stories," and these stories in end-
less succession were told in a spirit of frank fun.
They were not illustrative, admonitory, or hor-
tatory. They were just amusing, and always
fresh. This gift he acquired from his mother,
who had that rare charm of mimicry without
mockery, and caricature without malice. In all
his own letters there is not an unkind comment
or tinge of ill-nature, although in places, espe-
cially in later years, there is bitter indignation
against those Canadian patriots who were pa-
triots merely for their bellies' sake.
Taken together his letters and diaries are a
revelation of the heroic struggle by which a man
gains a footing in a strange place in that most
particular of all professions, a struggle compre-
hended by those alone who have made the trial
of it. And yet the method is simple. It is all
disclosed in his words, " I have never refused
any work that was given me to do." These
[125]
TTbe Ctvfl J)ear0
records are merely a chronicle of work. Out-
door clinics, laboratory tasks, post-mortems,
demonstrating, teaching, lecturing, attendance
upon the sick in wards and homes, meetings,
conventions, papers, addresses, editing, review-
ing,— the very remembrance of such a career
is enough to appall the stoutest heart.
But John McCrae was never appalled. He
went about his work gaily, never busy, never
idle. Each minute was pressed into the service,
and every hour was made to count. In the
first eight months of practice he claims to have
made ninety dollars. It is many years before
we hear him complain of the drudgery of send-
ing out accounts, and sighing for the services of
a bookkeeper. This is the only complaint that
appears in his letters.
There were at the time in Montreal two rival
schools, and are yet two rival hospitals. But
John McCrae was of no party. He was the
friend of all men, and the confidant of many.
He sought nothing for himself and by seeking
not he found what he most desired. His mind
was single and his intention pure; his acts un-
sullied by selfish thought; his aim was true
because it was steady and high. His aid was
never sought for any cause that was unworthy,
and those humorous eyes could see through the
bones to the marrow of a scheme. In spite of
[126!
TTbe Civil JJ)ears
his singular innocence, or rather by reason of
it, he was the last man in the world to be imposed
upon.
In all this devastating labour he never neg-
lected the assembling of himself together with
those who write and those who paint Indeed,
he had himself some small skill in line and col-
our. His hands were the hands of an artist — too
fine and small for a body that weighted 180
pounds, and measured more than five feet eleven
inches in height. There was in Montreal an
institution known as "The Pen and Pencil
Club." No one now living remembers a time
when it did not exist. It was a peculiar club.
It contained no member who should not be in
it; and no one was left out who should be in.
The number was about a dozen. For twenty
years the club met in Dyonnet's studio, and
afterwards, as the result of some convulsion,
in K. R. Macpherson's. A ceremonial supper
was eaten once a year, at which one dressed the
salad, one made the coffee, and Harris sang a
song. Here all pictures were first shown, and
writings read — if they were not too long. If
they were, there was in an adjoining room a tin
chest, which in these austere days one remembers
with refreshment. When John McCrae was
offered membership he "grabbed at it," and
the place was a home for the spirit wearied by
[127]
Ube
the week's work. There Brymner and the other
artists would discourse upon writings, and Bur-
gess and the other writers would discourse upon
pictures.
It is only with the greatest of resolution,
fortified by lack of time and space, that I have
kept myself to the main lines of his career, and
refrained from following him into by-paths
and secret, pleasant places; but I shall not be
denied just one indulgence. In the great days
when Lord Grey was Governor-General he
formed a party to visit Prince Edward Island.
The route was a circuitous one. It began at
Ottawa; it extended to Winnipeg, down the
Nelson River to York Factory, across Hudson
Bay, down the Strait, by Belle Isle and New-
foundland, and across the Gulf of St. Lawrence
to a place called Orwell. Lord Grey in the
matter of company had the reputation of do-
ing himself well. John McCrae was of the
party. It also included John Macnaughton, L. S.
Amery, Lord Percy, Lord Lanesborough, and
one or two others. The ship had called at North
Sydney where Lady Grey and the Lady Evelyn
joined.
Through the place in a deep ravine runs an
innocent stream which broadens out into still
pools, dark under the alders. There was a rod
— a very beautiful rod in two pieces. It excited
[I28[
TTbc Ctvfl H?ears
his suspicion. It was put into his hand, the
first stranger hand that ever held it; and the
first cast showed that it was a worthy hand.
The sea-trout were running that afternoon.
Thirty years before, in that memorable visit
to Scotland, he had been taken aside by "an
old friend of his grandfather's." It was there
he learned " to love the trooties." The love and
the art never left him. It was at this same
Orwell his brother first heard the world called
to arms on that early August morning in 1914.
In those civil years there were, of course,
diversions: visits to the United States and
meetings with notable men — Welch, Futcher,
Hurd, White, Howard, Barker: voyages to
Europe with a detailed itinerary upon the re-
cord; walks and rides upon the mountain;
excursion in winter to the woods, and in summer
to the lakes; and one visit to the Packards in
Maine, with the sea enthusiastically described.
Upon those woodland excursions and upon
many other adventures his companion is often
referred to as "Billy T.," who can be no other
than Lieut. -Col. W. G. Turner, "M.C."
Much is left out of the diary that we would
wish to have recorded. There is tantalizing
mention of "conversations" with Shepherd —
with Roddick — with Chipman — with Armstrong
— with Gardner — with Martin — with Moyse.
9 1 129 ]
H>ea& in IMs prime
Occasionally there is a note of description:
"James Mavor is a kindly genius with much
knowledge"; "Tait McKenzie presided ideally"
at a Shakespeare dinner; "Stephen Leacock
does not keep all the good things for his pub-
lisher." Those who know the life in Montreal
may well for themselves supply the details.
IX
John McCrae left the front after the second
battle of Ypres, and never returned. On June
ist, 191 5, he was posted to No. 3 General Hospital
at Boulogne, a most efficient unit organized by
McGill University and commanded by that
fine soldier Colonel H. S. Birkett, C.B. He
was placed in charge of medicine, with the rank
of Lieut.-Colonel as from April lyth, 1915, and
there he remained until his death.
At first he did not relish the change. His
heart was with the guns. He had transferred
from the artillery to the medical service as re-
cently as the previous autumn, and embarked
a few days afterwards at Quebec, on the 29th
of September, arriving at Davenport, October
20th, 1914. Although he was attached as Medical
Officer to the ist Brigade of Artillery, he could
not forget that he was no longer a gunner, and
in those tumultuous days he was often to be
found in the observation post rather than in
[130]
2>ea& in Ibis iprime
his dressing station. He had inherited some-
thing of the old army superciliousness towards
a "non-combatant" service, being unaware
that in this war the battle casualties in the
medical corps were to be higher than in any other
arm of the service. From South Africa he
wrote exactly fifteen years before: "I am glad
that I am not 'a medical' out here. No ' R.A.
M.C.' or any other 'M.C.' for me. There is a
big breach, and the medicals are on the far side
of it." On August yth, 1915, he writes from his
hospital post, " I expect to wish often that I
had stuck by the artillery." But he had no
choice.
Of this period of his service there is little
written record. He merely did his work, and
did it well, as he always did what his mind found
to do. His health was failing. He suffered
from the cold. A year before his death he
writes on January 25th, 1917:
The cruel cold is still holding. Everyone is suffering,
and the men in the wards in bed cannot keep warm. I
know of nothing so absolutely pitiless as weather. Let
one wish ; let one pray ; do what one will ; still the same clear
sky and no sign, — you know the cold brand of sunshine.
For my own part I do not think I have ever been more
uncomfortable. Everything is so cold that it hurts to pick
it up. To go to bed is a nightmare and to get up a worse
one. I have heard of cold weather in Europe, and how
the poor suffer, — now I know!
[131]
2>ea& in Iris prime
All his life he was a victim of asthma. The
first definite attack was in the autumn of 1894,
and the following winter it recurred with per-
sistence. For the next five years his letters
abound in references to the malady. After
coming to Montreal it subsided; but he always
felt that the enemy was around the corner. He
had frequent periods in bed; but he enjoyed the
relief from work and the occasion they afforded
for rest and reading.
In January, 1918, minutes begin to appear
upon his official file which were of great interest
to him, and to us. Colonel Birkett had relin-
quished command of the unit to resume his
duties as Dean of the Medical Faculty of McGill
University. He was succeeded by that veteran
soldier, Colonel J. M. Elder, C.M.G. At the
same time the command of No. i General Hospi-
tal fell vacant. Lieut.-Colonel McCrae was
required for that post; but a higher honour was
in store, namely the place of Consultant to the
British Armies in the Field. All these events,
and the final great event, are best recorded in
the austere official correspondence which I am
permitted to extract from the files:
From D.M.S. Canadian Contingents. (Major-General
C. L. Foster, C.B.). To O.C. No. 3 General Hospital,
B.E.F., I3th December, 1917: There is a probability of
the command of No. i General Hospital becoming vacant.
H)ea& in 1?te prime
It is requested, please, that you obtain from Lieut.-Col.
J. McCrae his wishes in the matter. If he is available,
and willing to take over this command, it is proposed to
offer it to him.
O.C. No. 3 General Hospital, B.E.F., To D.M.S.
Canadian Contingents, 28th December, 1917: Lieut. -
Colonel McCrae desires me to say that, while he naturally
looks forward to succeeding to the command of this
unit, he is quite willing to comply with your desire, and
will take command of No. i General Hospital at any time
you may wish.
D.G.M.S. British Armies in Prance. To D.M.S. Cana-
dian Contingents, January 2nd, 1918: It is proposed to
appoint Lieut. -Colonel J. McCrae, now serving with No.
3 Canadian General Hospital, Consulting Physician to
the British Armies in France. Notification of this ap-
pointment, when made, will be sent to you in due course.
D.M.S. Canadian Contingents. To O.C. No. 3 General
Hospital, B.E.F., January 5th, 1918: Since receiving your
letter I have information from G.H.Q. that they will
appoint a Consultant Physician to the British Armies in
the Field, and have indicated their desire for Lieut.-
Colonel McCrae for this duty. This is a much higher
honour than commanding a General Hospital, and I hope
he will take the post, as this is a position I have long
wished should be filled by a C.A.M.C. officer.
D.M.S. Canadian Contingents. To D.G.M.S., G.H.Q^
2nd Echelon, January isth, 1918: I fully concur in this
appointment, and consider this officer will prove his ability
as an able Consulting Physician.
Telegram: D.G.M.S., G.H.Q., 2nd Echelon. To D.M.
S.Canadian Contingents, January i8th,i9i8: Any objection
[133]
2>ea& tn 1bts prime
to Lieut.-Col. J. McCrae being appointed Consulting
Physician to British Armies in France. If appointed,
temporary rank of Colonel recommended.
Telegram: O.C. No. 3 General Hospital, B.E.F. To
D.M.S. Canadian Contingents, January 27th, 1918: Lieut.-
Col. John McCrae seriously ill with pneumonia at No. 14
General Hospital.
Telegram: O.C. No. 14 General Hospital. To O.C.
No. 3 General Hospital, B.E.F., January 28th, 1918: Lieut.-
Col. John McCrae died this morning.
This was the end. For him the war was fin-
ished and all the glory of the world had passed.
Henceforth we are concerned not with the
letters he wrote, but with the letters which were
written about him. They came from all quar-
ters, literally in hundreds, all inspired by pure
sympathy, but some tinged with a curiosity
which it is hoped this writing will do something
to assuage.
Let us first confine ourselves to the facts.
They are all contained in a letter which Colonel
Elder wrote to myself in common with other
friends. On Wednesday, January 23rd, he was
as usual in the morning; but in the afternoon
Colonel Elder found him asleep in his chair in
the mess room. " I have a slight headache,"
he said. He went to his quarters. In the
evening he was worse, but had no increase of
temperature, no acceleration of pulse or respira-
[i34l
Dea& in Ibis prime
tion. At this moment the order arrived for
him to proceed forthwith as Consulting Physi-
cian of the First Army. Colonel Elder writes,
" I read the order to him, and told him I should
announce the contents at mess. He was very
much pleased over the appointment. We dis-
cussed the matter at some length, and I took
his advice upon measures for carrying on the
medical work of the unit."
Next morning he was sleeping soundly, but
later on he professed to be much better. He had
no fever, no cough, no pain. In the afternoon
he sent for Colonel Elder, and announced that
he had pneumonia. There were no signs in the
chest; but the microscope revealed certain or-
ganisms which rather confirmed the diagnosis.
The temperature was rising. Sir Bertrand
Dawson was sent for. He came by evening
from Wimereux, but he could discover no physi-
cal signs. In the night the temperature con-
tinued to rise, and he complained of headache.
He was restless until the morning, "when he
fell into a calm, untroubled sleep."
Next morning, being Friday, he was removed
by ambulance to No. 14 General Hospital at
Wimereux. In the evening news came that he
was better; by the morning the report was
good, a lowered temperature and normal pulse.
In the afternoon the condition grew worse;
[ 135]
Beat) in f)is prime
there were signs of cerebral irritation with a
rapid, irregular pulse; his mind was quickly
clouded. Early on Sunday morning the tem-
perature dropped, and the heart grew weak;
there was an intense sleepiness. During the
day the sleep increased to coma, and all knew
the end was near.
His friends had gathered. The choicest of
the profession was there, but they were help-
less. He remained unconscious, and died at
half past one on Monday morning. The cause
of death was double pneumonia with massive
cerebral infection. Colonel Elder's letter con-
cludes: "We packed his effects in a large box,
everything that we thought should go to his
people, and Gow took it with him to England
to-day." Walter Gow was his cousin, a son
of that Gow who sailed with the Eckfords from
Glasgow in the Clutba. At the time he was
Deputy Minister in London of the Overseas
Military Forces of Canada. He had been sent
for but arrived too late; — all was so sudden.
The funeral was held on Tuesday afternoon,
January 29th, at the cemetery in Wimereux.
The burial was made with full military pomp.
From the Canadian Corps came Lieut.-General
Sir Arthur Currie, the General Officer Command-
ing; Major-General E. W. B. Morrison, and
Brigadier-General W. O. H. Dodds, of the Artil-
[136]
2>ea& in t>fs prime
lery. Sir A. T. Sloggett, the Director-General
of Medical Services, and his Staff were waiting
at the grave. All Commanding Officers at the
Base, and all Deputy Directors were there.
There was also a deputation from the Harvard
Unit headed by Harvey Gushing.
Bonfire went first, led by two grooms, and
decked in the regulation white ribbon, not the
least pathetic figure in the sad procession. A
hundred nursing Sisters in caps and veils stood
in line, and then proceeded in ambulances
to the cemetery, where they lined up again.
Seventy-five of the personnel from the Hospital
acted as escort, and six Sergeants bore the coffin
from the gates to the grave. The firing party
was in its place. Then followed the chief
mourners, Colonel Elder and Sir Bertrand Daw-
son; and in their due order, the rank and file
of No. 3 with their officers; the rank and file of
No. 14 with their officers; all officers from the
Base, with Major-General Wilberforce and the
Deputy Directors to complete.
It was a springtime day, and those who have
passed all those winters in France and in Flan-
ders will know how lovely the springtime may
be. So we may leave him, "on this sunny slope,
facing the sunset and the sea." These are the
words used by one of the nurses in a letter to a
friend, — those women from whom no heart is hid.
[i37l
Deafc in l)is prime
She also adds: "The nurses lamented that he
became unconscious so quickly they could not
tell him how much they cared. To the funeral
all came as we did, because we loved him so."
At first there was the hush of grief and the
silence of sudden shock. Then there was an
outbreak of eulogy, of appraisement, and sorrow.
No attempt shall be made to reproduce it here;
but one or two voices may be recorded in so
far as in disjointed words they speak for all.
Stephen Leacock, for those who write, tells of
his high vitality and splendid vigour — his career
of honour and marked distinction — his life filled
with honourable endeavour and instinct with
the sense of duty — a sane and equable tempera-
ment— whatever he did, filled with sure purpose
and swift conviction.
Dr. A. D. Blackader, acting Dean of the
Medical Faculty of McGill University, himself
speaking from out of the shadow, thus appraises
his worth: "As a teacher, trusted and beloved;
as a colleague, sincere and cordial; as a physi-
cian, faithful, cheerful, kind. An unkind word
he never uttered." Oskar Klotz, himself a
student, testifies that the relationship was es-
sentially one of master and pupil. From the
head of his first department at McGill, Profes-
sor, now Colonel, Adami, comes the weighty
phrase, that he was sound in diagnosis; as a
[138!
2>ea& in fcts prime
teacher inspiring; that few could rise to his
high level of service.
There is yet a deeper aspect of this character
with which we are concerned; but I shrink from
making the exposition, fearing lest with my
heavy literary tread I might destroy more than
I should discover. When one stands by the
holy place wherein dwells a dead friend's soul
— the word would slip out at last — it becomes
him to take off the shoes from off his feet. But
fortunately the dilemma does not arise. The
task has already been performed by one who by
God has been endowed with the religious sense,
and by nature enriched with the gift of expres-
sion; one who in his high calling has long been
acquainted with the grief of others, and is now
himself a man of sorrow, having seen with
understanding eyes,
These great days range like tides,
And leave our dead on every shore.
On February i4th, 1918, a Memorial Ser-
vice was held in the Royal Victoria College.
Principal Sir William Peterson presided. John
Macnaughton gave the address in his own lovely
and inimitable words, to commemorate one whom
he lamented, "so young and strong, in the
prime of life, in the full ripeness of his fine
powers, his season of fruit and flower bearing.
[139]
Dea^ in t>is prime
He never lost the simple faith of his childhood.
He was so sure about the main things, the vast
things, the indispensable things, of which all
formulated faiths are but a more or less stam-
mering expression, that he was content with the
rough embodiment in which his ancestors had
laboured to bring those great realities to bear
as beneficent and propulsive forces upon their
own and their children's minds and consciences.
His instinctive faith sufficed him."
To his own students John McCrae once
quoted the legend from a picture, to him "the
most suggestive picture in the world": What I
spent I had: what I saved I lost: what I gave
I have; — and he added: "It will be in your
power every day to store up for yourselves
treasures that will come back to you in the
consciousness of duty well done, of kind acts
performed, things that having given away freely
you yet possess. It has often seemed to me
that when in the Judgement those surprised
faces look up and say, Lord, when saw we Thee
anhungered and fed Thee; or thirsty and gave
Thee drink; a stranger, and took Thee in;
naked and clothed Thee; and there meets them
that warrant-royal of all charity, Inasmuch as
ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye have
done it unto Me, there will be amongst those
awed ones many a practitioner of medicine."
[ 140]
JDeafc in IMs prime
And finally I shall conclude this task to which
I have set a worn but willing hand, by using
again the words which once I used before:
Beyond all consideration of his intellectual
attainments John McCrae was the well beloved
of his friends. He will be missed in his place;
and wherever his companions assemble there
will be for them a new poignancy in the Miltonic
phrase,
But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never must return!
LONDON,
nth November, 1918.
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